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92    N396 
Mehru 


56-1WPL8 


Toward  freedojj^  the  autobiography  of 
Jawaharlal  Nehru  ** 


92    M396  J>6-lUtl8 

Nehru 

Toward  freedom^  the  autobiography 

of  Jawaharlal  Nehru 


L> 


i 


JAN17f62 


TOWARD   FREEDOM 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  JAWAHARLAL  NEHRU 


T 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF 


JAWAHARLAL 
NEHRU 


ILLUSTRATED 


THE  JOHN   DAY   COMPANY 


NEW  YORK 


rights 

*£t*cc'  f 

si*   arty 


XJ**ITS»     STATES     OF     A  Kl  H  ft  I  C:  A 
COICNWAI-t,      JPJtKSS,      lM<3-»       CO»S<WA)Lt.^      K.    y. 


*       X 


TO 


KAM ALA 


•WHO     IS     NO     MORE 


PUBLISHER'S  FOREWORD 

NEHRU  is  TODAY  the  great  democrat  of  the  world.  Not  Churchill,  not 
Roosevelt,  not  Chiang  Kai-shek,  in  a  sense  not  even  Gandhi,  stands 
as  firm  as  Nehru  does  for  government  by  the  consent  of  the  people 
and  for  the  integrity  of  the  individual.  He  scorns  and  despises  Nazism 
and  fascism.  He  is  not  a  communist  "chiefly  because  I  resist  the  com 
munist  tendency  to  treat  communism  as  holy  doctrine.  I  feel  also  that 
too  much  violence  is  associated  with  communist  methods."  The  goal 
of  India,  as  he  states  it,  is  "a  united,  free,  democratic  country,  closely 
associated  in  a  world  federation  with  other  free  nations."  Yet  Nehru 
is  in  a  British  jail.  Why? 

In  one  of  his  last  letters  he  did  me  the  honor  to  suggest  that  I  write 
a  preface  for  this  first  American  edition  of  his  autobiography.  This 
I  am  glad  to  do,  not  only  to  set  his  position  clearly  before  Americans 
at  the  outset,  but  also  to  tell  something  of  the  long  course  by  which 
his  book  has  come  to  this  country. 

The  esteem  in  which  Nehru  and  his  program  are  held  by  liberal 
Englishmen  is  shown  by  the  proposal  soon  after  the  war  began  in 
Europe,  that  he  be  made  Premier  of  India  "in  fact  if  not  in  name,"  as 
it  was  put  in  the  New  Statesman  of  London,  which  added,  *lf  we  dare 
give  India  liberty  we  shall  win  the  leadership  of  all  free  peoples.  If 
we  must  meet  a  rebel  India  with  coercion,  will  anyone  in  Europe  or 
America  mistake  us  for  the  champions  of  democracy?" 

This  comment  suggests  why  India  is  now  an  American  problem. 
We  are  staking  the  future  of  democracy  on  saving  Britain.  To  under 
stand  Britain  we  must  understand  the  British  Empire.  To  understand 
the  Empire  we  must  understand  India,  And  to  understand  India  we 
must  understand  Nehru  and  his  attitude  to  the  world. 

For  Nehru  thinks  in  world  terms,  He  has  been  three  times  presi 
dent  of  the  Indian  National  Congress,  and  declined  a  fourth  term. 
Next  only  to  Gandhi,  he  is  the  leader  of  the  millions  of  India.  He 
fights  for  the  freedom  of  India,  but  that  is  only  the  issue  of  the  mo 
ment.  He  stands  for  an  Asiatic  federation,  but  that  is  only  the  issue, 
let  us  say,  of  a  generation.  He  looks  beyond  to  the  world  order,  he 
thinks  of  mankind  as  a  whole,  In  an  article  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
last  April,  he  wrote;  "India  is  far  from  America,  but  more  and  more 
our  thoughts  go  to  this  great  democratic  country,  which  seems,  al 
most  alone,  to  keep  the  torch  of  democratic  freedom  alight  in  a 

vli 


world  given  over  to  imperialism  and  fascism,  violence  and  aggression, 
and  opportunism  of  the  worst  type." 

America,  England,  India,  China  .  .  .  "Round  the  four  seas,  said 
Confucius,  "all  men  are  brothers";  and  such  is  Nehru's  concept, 

Just  before  this  book  went  to  press  Dr.  Anup  Singh,  the  Indian 
who  wrote  the  brief  vivid  biography  entitled  Nthru:  Rising  Sttxr  of 
India,  sat  in  my  office.  He  has  for  several  years  given  wise  and  selfless 
guidance  in  finding  the  way  to  bring  this  autobiography  to  Amer 
ican  readers.  Now,  at  the  last,  we  asked  him,  "What  is  the  one  salient 
thing  to  say  about  Nehru?"  This  is  what  he  said  in  reply:  There  has 
been  too  much  talk  of  the  traditional  conflict  of  East  and  West,  and 
belief  that  they  can  never  meet,  Nehru  is  proof  that  they  have  already 
met.  He  is  the  synthesis  of  East  and  West,  In  him  the  best  of  both  cul 
tures  are  fused  into  the  coming  world  type,  the  man  of  the  future* 

The  last  sections  of  this  book  were  written  in  August*  1940,  not 
many  weeks  before  Nehru's  arrest.  The  greater  part  had  been  written 
between  June,  1934,  and  February,  1935,  in  prison* 

When  I  went  on  a  trip  to  India  early  in  1934,  one  of  the  men  I  was 
to  see  was  Nehru.  But  eleven  days  before  I  landed  in  Calcutta,  he  had 
stood  in  a  courtroom  there,  offering  no  defense,  and  had  been  sen 
tenced  to  his  seventh  term  of  imprisonment*  It  might  be  said,  although 
it  is  not  strictly  true,  that  if  it  took  a  war  to  put  Nehru  in  jail  in  1940, 
it  took  an  earthquake  to  do  it  the  time  before.  In  the  province  of 
Behar,  on  January  15,  1934,  there  was  a  great  earthquake*  Even  in 
India  people  did  not  know  for  a  long  time  how  great  a  disaster  it  had 
been.  Thousands  of  persons  were  killed  and  great  areas  kid  waste* 
When  Nehru  learned  of  the  seriousness  of  the  earthquake*  he  went 
to  the  scene,  and  then  issued  an  appeal  for  relief  funds,  and  accused 
the  Behar  government  of  scamping  relief  and  neglecting  the  debris, 
where  living  people  lay  buried  for  as  long  as  twelve  days.  In  one  ruined 
city,  to  spur  on  the  work,  he  dug  at  the  debris  with  his  own  hands, 
and  his  party  unearthed  the  body  of  a  little  girl.  When  he  was  con 
victed  a  few  days  later,  the  charges  were  based  upon  speeches  he  had 
made  previously  at  Calcutta;  but  few  in  India  doubted  that  it  counted 
much  against  him  that  he  had  openly  charged  that  after  the  earth 
quake  the  government  had  taken  immediate  steps  to  protect  property 
but  had  not  been  so  expeditious  in  trying  to  rescue  people  who  lay 
buried. 

To  the  police  officer  who  carne  to  arrest  him  he  said  wryly,  *I  hairc 

viii 


been  waiting  for  you  a  long  time*'*  He  had  been  out  of  jail  for  less 
than  six  months.  When  he  was  taken  off  to  prison  he  telegraphed  to 
his  daughter,  Indira,  "Am  going  back  to  my  other  home  for  a  while.** 

Friends  in  India,  however^  arranged  to  send  to  America  some  of 
his  writings,  and  we  published  in  Asia  Magazine  a  series  of  letters 
which  he  had  written  to  Indira  from  his  prison  between  1930  and 
1933.  These  have  become  a  part  of  his  book,  Glimpm  of  World  H*V~ 
lory.  Late  in  2935  we  learned  that  he  had  come  out  of  prison  bringing 
the  complete  manuscript  of  his  autobiography*  From  what  were 
then  the  last  chapters  of  the  autobiography  we  made  the  leading 
article  in  the  June,  1936,  issue  of  Asia.  Published  as  a  book  in  Eng 
land  in  that  year,  the  autobiography  was  at  once  greeted  by  critics  as  a 
masterpiece  and  was  widely  read  and  had  to  be  reprinted  again  and 
again.  There  have  now  been  fourteen  printings  in  England.  Negotia 
tions  with  the  London  publishers  for  an  American  edition  failed  after 
dragging  on  until  the  book  as  first  written  had  become  out  of  date. 

When  John  Gunther  was  in  India  in  1938,  everywhere  he  went  the 
first  political  question  asked  him  was  "Have  you  seen  Jawaharlal?" 
Gunther  sent  to  Asm  an  article  published  under  this  title  in  February! 
1939-  Of  the  autobiography  he  wrote  in  his  book  Inside  Am,  **Nehru*s 
autobiography  is  subtle,  complex,  discriminating,  infinitely  cultivated, 
steeped  in  doubt,  suffused  with  intellectual  passion.  It  is  a  kind  of 
Indian  Education  of  Henry  Adams,  written  in  superlative  prose- 
hardly  a  dozen  men  alive  write  English  as  well  as  Nehru — and  it  is 
not  only  an  autobiography  of  the  most  searching  kind,  but  the  story 
of  a  whole  society!  the  story  of  the  life  and  development  of  a  nation.** 

When  Gunther  got  back  to  New  York  we  had  a  talk  in  which  he 
emphasized  his  enthusiasm  for  the  autobiography  and  after  consulting 
several  Indians  including  Mrs,  Bhicoo  Batlivala  and  Dr,  Anup  Singh, 
we  resolved  to  try  again*  this  time  dealing  directly  with  Nehru.  For 
it  was  plain  that  after  three  years  the  book,  if  Americans  were  to  read 
it,  would  have  to  be  revised,  by  the  removal  of  large  sections  that  were 
no  longer  in  point  or  were  of  little  interest  in  this  country,  and  also  by 
additions  to  bring  it  up  to  the  moment*  This  Nehru  was  at  first  re 
luctant  to  do,  but  at  last  he  consented*  That  was  a  little  more  than  a 
year  ago* 

At  just  about  that  time  the  European  war  began  to  make  difficulties 
both  of  mail  transport  and  of  censorship.  The  deletions  which  we 
have  made  have  not  been  seen  by  Nehru,  although  they  have  been 
approved  by  his  representative  in  London,  V,  K»  Krishna  KietKuou 

ix 


They  are  chiefly  passages  about  the  details  of  Indian  politics,  incidents 
now  long  in  the  past,  or  individuals  and  places  important  in  Indian 
life  but  not  to  Americans.  The  additions  are  Nehru's  own,  thanks  to 
the  courtesy  of  the  British  censor.  His  last  chapters  reached  us  un- 
censored,  and  one  of  them  in  an  envelope  with  his  name  on  the  out 
side  and  stamped  "Not  opened  by  censor."  We  have  taken  a  pub- 
lisher's  liberty  in  placing  at  the  beginning  two  chapters  which  in  the 
English  edition  come  much  later  in  the  book,  because  they  seem  to 
introduce  Nehru's  personality  most  readily  to  American  readers,  who 
have  not  known  him  so  well  as  the  English  have.  These  chapters  also 
seem  an  appropriate  beginning,  because  they  tell  of  his  life  in  prison, 
where  he  was  when  he  wrote  most  of  the  book  and  where  he  now  is 
again.  Because  of  this  confinement,  he  will  not  have  had  a  chance  to 
approve  the  proofs  of  his  book.  Knowing  that  such  might  be  the  case, 
he  wrote  late  in  September,  "No  further  reference  to  me  need  be 
necessary  at  all  It  is  unlikely  that  I  shall  be  in  a  position  to  answer  it 
after  a  short  while."  The  responsibility  for  the  final  form  of  the  book 
therefore  is  mine,  and  being  sure  that  we  have  done  no  violence  to 
Nehru's  ideas  or  style,  I  am  confident  not  only  of  his  indulgence  but 
also  of  the  understanding  of  his  readers. 

In  India,  it  has  been  said,  the  unexpected  always  happens,  hut  the 
inevitable  never  occurs.  Certainly  it  was  unexpected  that  the  British 
should  so  mistake  the  temper  of  India  as  to  deny  the  last  appeal  for 
freedom  and  to  put  Nehru  into  jail  yet  again.  Certainly  it  is  not  in* 
evitable  that  Indian  freedom  should  be  long  denied*  And  certainly 
Nehru's  record  is  clear. 

After  his  release  from  prison  in  1935,  he  went  to  Europe,  where  his 
wife  died  early  the  next  year.  A  little  while  before  that  he  had  been 
for  the  second  time  elected  president  of  the  Indian  National  Congress* 
Returning  by  plane  by  way  of  Rome,  he  had  the  greatest  difficulty  in 
avoiding  the  importunities  of  the  Fascists,  who  tried  for  their  own 
purposes  to  get  him  to  meet  Mussolini,  which  he  knew  he  must  not 
do  because  the  occasion  would  be  turned  to  the  uses  of  fascist  propa* 
ganda. 

After  the  betrayal  at  Munich,  Nehru  said  without  delay,  **A1I  our 
sympathies  are  with  Czechoslovakia,  India  resents  British  foreign 
policy  and  will  be  no  party  to  it" 

When  the  European  war  broke  out,  he  was  in  the  capita!  of  free 
China,  where  he  received  one  of  the  greatest  receptions  ever  given  to 


a  foreign  visitor.  He  flew  back  to  India>  declaring  that  India's  position 
was  not  one  of  refusing  to  fight  on  England's  side.  "But  we  want  to 
be  free  to  make  our  own  choice***  he  said*  "Right  now  we  are  in  a 
situation  in  which  we  would  be  asked  to  fight  for  democracy  when  we 
do  not  have  democracy  ourselves,"  Nehru  worked  in  complete  har 
mony  with  Gandhi*  Neither  of  them  put  any  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
Britain's  war  effort  or  the  contribution  of  India  to  it*  "The  British  are 
a  brave  and  proud  people/*  said  Gandhi,  "The  greatest  gesture  of  the 
Congress  is  that  it  refrains  from  creating  trouble  in  India*"  And 
Nehru  said  that  to  launch  civil  disobedience  merely  because  Britain 
was  in  peril  would  be  "an  act  derogatory  to  India's  honor,"  But  both 
Gandhi  and  Nehru  felt  that  the  British  rulers  were  forcing  the  issue 
upon  India  and  inviting  civil  disobedience,  "If  die  war  is  really  a 
war  for  democracy  and  freedom/'  said  Nehru,  "then  imperialism 
must  end  and  the  independence  and  self-determination  o£  India  must 
be  acknowledged";  with  that  done,  he  said,  "India  would  throw  her  full 
weight  into  the  struggle," 

Britain  did  not,  as  is  often  supposed,  offer  India  freedom,  but  is 
sued  on  August  8,  1940,  an  offer  so  hedged  about  with  ifs  and  buts 
that  the  Indian  nationalists,  in  view  of  past  experience*  felt  that  they 
could  not  trust  it*  Gandhi  finally  announced  on  October  13  a  cam 
paign  of  individual,  not  mass,  civil  disobedience,  to  take  the  form  of 
public  advocacy  of  pacifism.  He  said  he  believed  that  he  might  still 
play  a  part  in  reconciliation  **not  only  between  Britain  and  India,  but 
also  between  the  warring  nations  of  the  earth,"  Nehru  is  far  from 
being  a  pacifist*  He  has  said,  "If  Hitler  or  any  other  invader  attacks 
us,  we  Indians  wiU  fight  to  the  death*"  But  under  Gandhi's  orders  he 
went  out  into  the  villages  and  spoke,  explaining  the  Congress  position 
against  British  war  policy,  until  at  last  the  British  seized  him. 

So  it  came,  as  he  puts  it,  to  the  parting  of  the  ways,  **I  am  sorry,"  he 
writes,  "for  in  spite  of  my  hostility  to  British  imperialism  and  all  im 
perialisms,  I  have  loved  much  that  was  England,  and  I  should  have 
liked  to  keep  the  silken  bonds  of  the  spirit  between  India  and 
England*" 

RICHAJU>  J*  WALSH 
Not/ember  2 


AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 
TO  THE  ORIGINAL  EDITION 

THIS  BOOK  WAS  WRITTEN  entirely  in  prison,  except  for  the  postscript  and 
certain  minor  changes,  from  June,  1934,  to  February,  1935.  The  pri 
mary  object  in  writing  these  pages  was  to  occupy  myself  with  a  defi 
nite  task,  so  necessary  in  the  long  solitudes  of  jail  life,  as  well  as  to 
review  past  events  in  India»  with  which  I  had  been  connected*  to 
enable  myself  to  think  clearly  about  them.  I  began  the  task  In  a  mood 
of  self-questioning*  and,  to  a  large  extent,  this  persisted  throughout,  I 
was  not  writing  deliberately  for  an  audience,  but,  if  I  thought  of  an 
audience,  it  was  one  of  my  own  countrymen  and  countrywomen.  For 
foreign  readers  I  would  probably  have  written  differently,  or  with  a 
different  emphasis,  stressing  certain  aspects  which  have  been  slurred 
over  in  the  narrative  and  passing  over  lightly  certain  other  aspects 
which  I  have  treated  at  some  length.  Many  of  these  latter  aspects  may 
not  interest  the  non-Indian  reader,  and  he  may  consider  them  unim 
portant  or  too  obvious  for  discussion  or  debate;  but  I  felt  that  in  the 
India  of  today  they  had  a  certain  importance,  A  number  of  references 
to  our  internal  politics  and  personalities  may  also  be  of  little  interest 
to  the  outsider. 

The  reader  will,  I  hope,  remember  that  the  book  was  written  during 
a  particularly  distressful  period  of  my  existence.  It  bears  obvious  traces 
of  this.  If  the  writing  had  been  done  under  more  normal  conditions, 
it  would  have  been  different  and  perhaps  occasionally  more  restrained. 
Yet  I  have  decided  to  leave  it  as  it  is,  for  it  may  have  some  interest  for 
others  in  so  far  as  it  represents  what  I  felt  at  the  time  of  writing. 

My  attempt  was  to  trace,  as  far  as  I  could,  my  own  mental  develop 
ment,  and  not  to  write  a  survey  of  recent  Indian  history.  The  fact  that 
this  account  resembles  superficially  such  a  survey  is  apt  to  mislead  the 
reader  and  lead  him  to  attach  a  wider  importance  to  it  than  it  deserves* 
I  must  warn  him,  therefore,  that  this  account  is  wholly  one-sided  and, 
inevitably,  egotistical;  many  important  happenings  have  been  com 
pletely  ignored  and  many  important  persons,  who  shaped  events,  have 
hardly  been  mentioned,  In  a  real  survey  of  past  events  this  would 
have  been  inexcusable,  but  a  personal  account  can  claim  this  indul 
gence.  Those  who  want  to  make  a  proper  study  of  our  recent  past  will 
have  to  go  to  other  sources.  It  may  be,  however,  that  this  and  other 

xiii 


personal  narratives  will  help  them  to  fill  the  gaps  and  to  provide  a 
background  for  the  study  of  hard  fact. 

I  have  discussed  frankly  some  of  my  colleagues  with  whom  I  have 
been  privileged  to  work  for  many  years  and  for  whom  I  have  the 
greatest  regard  and  affection;  I  have  also  criticized  groups  and  indi 
viduals,  sometimes  perhaps  rather  severely.  That  criticism  does  not 
take  away  from  my  respect  for  many  of  them.  But  I  have  felt  that 
those  who  meddle  in  public  affairs  must  be  frank  with  each  other  and 
with  the  public  they  claim  to  serve.  A  superficial  courtesy  and  an 
avoidance  of  embarrassing  and  sometimes  distressing  questions  do  not 
help  in  bringing  about  a  true  understanding  of  each  other  or  of  the 
problems  that  face  us.  Real  co-operation  must  be  based  on  an  apprecia 
tion  of  differences  as  well  as  common  points,  and  a  facing  of  facts, 
however  inconvenient  they  might  be.  I  trust,  however,  that  nothing 
that  I  have  written  bears  a  trace  of  malice  or  ill  will  against  any  indi 
vidual. 

I  have  purposely  avoided  discussing  the  issues  in  India  today,  except 
vaguely  and  indirectly.  I  was  not  in  a  position  to  go  into  them  with 
any  thoroughness  in  prison,  or  even  to  decide  in  my  own  mind  what 
should  be  done.  Even  after  my  release  I  did  not  think  it  worth  while 
to  add  anything  on  this  subject  It  did  not  seem  to  fit  in  with  whit  1 
had  already  written.  And  so  this  "autobiographical  narrative1*  remaim 
a  sketchy,  personal,  and  incomplete  account  of  the  past,  verging  on  the 
present,  but  cautiously  avoiding  contact  with  it* 

JAWAHARIAL  NEHRU 
Badenweiler, 
January  2, 1936. 


xiv 


CONTENTS 


CHAFTU* 

i  In  Prison  Again  3 

i!  Animals  in  Prison  9 

ni  Descent  from  Kashmir  16 

iv  Childhood  20 

v  Theosophy  26 

vi  Harrow  and  Cambridge  30 

vii  Back  Home  and  Wartime  Politics  in  India  39 

vm  My  Wedding  and  an  Adventure  in  the  Himalayas  45 

ix  The  Coming  of  Gandhi  47 

x  I  am  Externedj  and  the  Consequences  54 

xi  Wanderings  among  the  Ki$am  59 

xn  Nonco-operation  65 

xni  First  Imprisonment  73 

xrv  Nonviolence  and  the  Doctrine  of  the  Sword  80 

xv  Lucknow  District  Jail  85 

xvi  Out  Again  9a 

xvn  An  Interlude  at  Nabha  97 

xwi  M.  Mohamad  A!i»  My  Father,  and  Gandhi|i  104 

xix  Communalism  Rampant  na 

xx  Municipal  Work  **7 

xx!  In  Europe  *21 

xxn  Experience  of  Lathee  Charges  128 

xxm  Thunder  in  the  Air  *3$ 

xxiv  Independence  and  After  *49 

xxv  Civil  Disobedience  Begins  *5$ 

xxvi  In  Naini  Prison  *^3 

XXVH  The  No»Ta&  Campaign  in  the  United  Provinces  17! 

xxvin  Death  of  My  Father  *% 

xxix  The  Delhi  Pact  *86 

xxx  A  Southern  Holiday  *97 

xxxi  Friction  and  the  Round  Table  Conference  aoi 

XXXH  Arrests,  Ordinances,  Proscriptions  210 

XV 


CHAPTEE  ***** 

xxxm  Ballyhoo  2|8 

xxxiv  In  Bareilly  and  Dehra  Dun  Jails  223 

xxxv  The  Struggle  Outside  227 

xxxvi  What  Is  Religion?  236 

xxxvii  The  "Dual  Policy"  of  the  British  Government  244 

xxxvin  The  End  of  a  Long  Term  250 

xxxix  Dominion  Status  and  Independence  260 

XL  India  Old  and  New  269 

XLI  The  Record  of  British  Rule  ^75 

XLII  A  Civil  Marriage  and  a  Question  of  Script  285 

XLIII  Communalism  and  Reaction  ^$7 

XLIV  Impasse  and  Earthquake  293 

XLV  Alipore  Jail  301 

XLVI  Desolation  309 

XLVII  Paradoxes  3*^ 

XLVIII  Dehra  Jail  Again  326 

XLIX  Eleven  Days  332 

L  Back  to  Prison  336 

LI  Reflections  on  Social  Change  342 

ui  A  Conclusion  351 

LIII  Five  Years  Later  355 

Epilogue:  The  Parting  of  the  Ways  371 

APPENDIXES 

A  Pledge  taken  on  Independence  Day,  January  26,  1930    385 
B  Presidential  Address  by  Jawaharlal  Nehru  at  49th  Ses 
sion  of  Indian  National  Congress,  April  1936  386 
c  Presidential  Address  by  Jawaharlal  Nehru  at  50th  Ses 
sion  of  Indian  National  Congress,  December  1936        413 
D  Statement  by  Congress  Committee,  September    15, 

1939  4*8 
E  Excerpts  from  Article  about  Himself  Written  Anony 
mously  by  Jawaharlal  Nehru  433 
GLOSSARY  435 
INDEX  ^ 

xvi 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 


Jawaharlal  Nehru  in  1939  18 

A  typical  barge  on  the  Jhelum  River  in  Kashmir  19 

Jawaharlal  Nehru's  grandfather.  Pandit  Ganga  Dhar  Nehru 
(from  an  old  painting)  34 

Jawaharlal  Nehru's  father,  Pandit  Motilal  Nehru  35 

Jawaharlal  Nehru's  mother,  Swarup  Rani  Nehru  42 

The  older  of  Jawaharlal  Nehru's  two  sisters*  Mrs.  Vijaya  Lak- 
shmi  Pandit  43 

Indian  peasants  marching  to  a  session  of  the  Indian  National 
Congress  carry  a  banner  reading,  "Away  with  serfdom"  158 

Jawaharlal  Nehru's  younger  sister,  Mrs,  Krishna  Huteesingh 
(left),  and  his  wife,  Kamala,  in  the  male  dress  which  they 
adopted  as  volunteers  in  the  civil  disobedience  campaign  of 
*93°  *59 

Kamala,  Nehru's  wife  198 

Jawaharlal  Nehru  with  his  daughter,  Indira  199 

(Above)  Congress  volunteers  give  the  anti-fascist  salute  (Below) 
Part  of  the  huge  audience  at  a  1939  session  of  the  Indian  Na 
tional  Congress  232 

Indian  bodyguard  before  the  British  governor's  palace  in  Bom 
bay  233 

Mohandas  K.  Gandhi  256 

Jawaharlal  Nehru  and  Rabindranath  Tagore,  the  poet  Tagore 
was  born  on  the  same  day,  month,  and  year  as  Nehru's  father  257 

Generalissimo  Chiang  Kai-shek,  Madam  Chiang,  and  Jawaharlal 
Nehru,  during  Nehru's  visit  to  Chungking  in  1939  358 

Jawaharlal  Nehru  in  his  study,  1940  359 


3CVH 


TOWARD    FREEDOM 


THE  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  JAWAHAJRJLAL,  NEHRU 


X 

IN  PRISON  AGAIN1 

Two  OF  us  were  transferred  together  from  the  BareiHy  District  Jail 
to  the  Dehra  Dun  Jail — Govind  Ballabh  Pant  and  L  To  avoid  the 
possibility  of  a  demonstration,  we  were  not  put  on  the  train  at  Bareilly, 
but  at  a  wayside  station  fifty  miles  out*  We  were  taken  secretly  by 
motorcar  at  night,  and,  after  many  months  of  seclusion,  that  drive 
through  the  cool  night  air  was  a  rare  delight. 

Before  we  left  BareiHy  Jail,  a  little  incident  took  place  which 
moved  me  then  and  is  yet  fresh  in  my  memory.  The  superintendent 
of  police  of  Bareilly,  an  Englishman,  was  present  there,  and,  as  I  got 
into  the  car,  he  handed  to  me  rather  shyly  a  packet  which  he  told  me 
contained  old  German  illustrated  magazines.  He  said  that  he  had 
heard  that  1  was  learning  German  and  so  he  had  brought  these  maga 
zines  for  me,  I  had  never  met  him  before,  nor  have  I  seen  him  since. 
I  do  not  even  know  his  name.  This  spontaneous  act  of  courtesy  and 
Ac  kindly  thought  that  prompted  it  touched  me,  and  I  felt  very  grate 
ful  to  him. 

During  that  long  midnight  drive  I  mused  over  the  relations  of 
Englishmen  and  Indians,  of  ruler  and  ruled,  of  official  and  nonofficial, 
of  those  in  authority  and  those  who  have  to  obey.  What  a  great  gulf 
divided  the  two  races,  and  how  they  distrusted  and  disliked  each 
other!  But  more  than  the  distrust  and  the  dislike  was  the  ignorance  of 
each  other,  and,  because  of  this,  each  side  was  a  little  afraid  of  the 
other  and  was  constantly  on  its  guard  in  the  other's  presence*  To  each, 
the  other  appeared  as  a  sour-looking,  unamiabk  creature,  and  neither 
realized  that  there  was  decency  and  kindliness  behind  the  mask*  A& 
the  rulers  of  the  land,  with  enormous  patronage  at  their  command,  the 
English  had  attracted  to  themselves  crowds  of  cringing  place  hunters 
and  opportunists,  and  they  judged  of  India  from  these  unsavory  speci 
mens.  The  Indian  saw  the  Englishman  function  only  as  an  official 
with  aU  the  inhumanity  of  the  machine  and  with  all  the  passion  of  a 
vested  interest  trying  to  preserve  itself-  How  different  was  the  behavior 
of  a  person  acting  as  an  individual  and  obeying  his  own  impulses  from 
his  behavior  as  an  official  or  a  unit  in  an  army!  The  soldier,  stiffening 
to  attention,  drops  his  humanity  and,  acting  as  an  automaton,  shoots 

1  to  the  original  edition  of  this  book*  dais  chapter  and  the  one  iutc«edi8# 
following  the  chapter,  *la  BtreUly  tad  0ehra  Dua  Jaili/'— Ed» 


and  kills  inoffensive  and  harmless  persons  who  have  done  him  no  ill. 
So  also,  I  thought,  the  police  officer  who  would  hesitate  to  do  an  un* 
kindness  to  an  individual  would,  the  day  after,  direct  a  lathee  charge  on 
innocent  people.  He  will  not  think  of  himself  as  an  individual  then, 
nor  will  he  consider  as  individuals  those  crowds  whom  he  beats  down 
or  shoots, 

As  soon  as  one  begins  to  think  of  the  other  side  as  a  mass  or  a 
crowd,  the  human  link  seems  to  go,  We  forget  that  crowds  also  consist 
of  individuals,  of  men  and  women  and  children,  who  lovt  and  hate 
and  suffer.  An  average  Englishman,  if  he  were  frank,  would  probably 
confess  that  he  knows  some  quite  decent  Indians  but  they  are  excep 
tions  and  as  a  whole  Indians  are  a  detestable  crowd.  The  average 
Indian  would  admit  that  some  Englishmen  whom  he  knows  are 
admirable,  but,  apart  from  these  few,  the  English  are  an  overbearing, 
brutal,  and  thoroughly  bad  lot.  Curious  how  each  person  judges  of  the 
other  race,  not  from  the  individual  with  whom  he  has  come  in  contact* 
but  from  others  about  whom  he  knows  very  little  or  nothing  at  all 

Personally,  I  have  been  very  fortunate  and,  almost  invariably,  I  have 
received  courtesy  from  my  own  countrymen  as  well  as  from  the  Eng 
lish.  Even  my  jailers  and  the  policemen  who  have  arrested  nit  or 
escorted  me  as  a  prisoner  from  place  to  place,  have  been  kind  to  me* 
and  much  of  the  bitterness  of  conflict  and  the  sting  of  jail  life  has  born 
toned  down  because  of  this  human  touch.  It  was  not  surprising  that 
my  own  countrymen  should  treat  me  so,  for  I  had  gained  a  measure 
of  notoriety  and  popularity  among  them*  Even  for  Englishmen  I  was 
an  individual  and  not  merely  one  of  the  mass,  and,  I  imagine*  the  fact 
that  I  had  received  my  education  in  England,  and  especially  my  having 
been  to  an  English  public  school,  brought  me  nearer  to  them*  Because 
of  this,  they  could  not  help  considering  me  as  more  or  less  civilised 
after  their  own  pattern,  however  perverted  my  public  activities  ap 
peared  to  be.  Often  I  felt  a  little  embarrassed  and  humiliated  because 
of  this  special  treatment  when  I  compared  my  lot  with  that  of  mosi  of 
my  colleagues. 

Despite  all  these  advantages  that  I  had,  jail  was  jail*  and  the  oppres 
sive  atmosphere  of  the  place  was  sometimes  almost  unbearable.  The 
very  air  of  it  was  full  of  violence  and  meanness  and  graft  and  untruth; 
there  was  cither  cringing  or  cursing,  A  person  who  was  at  alt  searitbe 
was  in  a  continuous  state  of  tension.  Trivial  occurrences  would  upiet 
one.  A  piece  of  bad  news  in  a  letter,  some  item  ia  the  newspaper^ 
would  make  one  almost  ill  with  anxiety  or  anger  for  a  wWIe,  Outside 


there  was  always  relief  In  action,  and  various  interests  and  activities 
produced  an  equilibrium  of  the  mind  and  body*  In  prison  there  was  no 
outlet,  and  one  felt  bottled  up  and  repressed;  inevitably*  one  took  one 
sided  and  rather  distorted  views  of  happenings.  Illness  in  jail  was  par 
ticularly  distressing. 

And  yet  1  managed  to  accustom  myself  to  the  jail  routine  and  with 
physical  exercise  and  fairly  hard  mental  work  kept  fit.  Whatever  the 
value  of  work  and  exercise  might  be  outside,  they  are  essential  in  jail, 
for  without  them  one  is  apt  to  go  to  pieces,  I  adhered  to  a  strict  time 
table,  and,  in  order  to  keep  up  to  the  mark,  I  carried  on  with  as  many 
normal  habits  as  I  could,  such  as  the  daily  shave  (I  was  allowed  a 
safety  razor),  I  mention  this  minor  matter  because,  as  a  rule,  people 
gave  it  up  and  slacked  in  other  ways.  After  a  hard  day's  work,  the 
evening  found  me  pleasantly  tired,  and  sleep  was  welcomed. 

And  so  the  days  passed,  and  the  weeks  and  the  months.  But  some 
times  a  month  would  stick  terribly  and  would  not  end,  or  so  it  seemed* 
Sometimes  I  would  feel  bored  and  fed  up  and  angry  with  almost 
everything  and  everybody — with  my  companions  in  prison,  with  the 
jail  staff,  with  people  outside  for  something  they  had  done  or  not  done, 
with  the  British  Empire  (but  this  was  a  permanent  feeling),  and  above 
all  with  myself.  I  would  become  a  bundle  of  nerves,  very  susceptible 
to  various  moods  caused  by  jail  life.  Fortunately  I  recovered  soon  from 
these. 

Interview  days  were  the  red-letter  days  in  jail  How  one  longed  for 
them  and  waited  for  them  and  counted  the  days!  And  after  the  excite 
ment  of  the  interview  there  was  the  inevitable  reaction  and  a  sense  of 
emptiness  and  loneliness.  If,  as  sometimes  happened,  the  interview  was 
not  a  success,  because  of  some  bad  news  which  upset  me,  or  some  other 
reason,  I  would  feel  miserable  afterward*  There  were  jail  officials  pres* 
ent  at  the  interviews,  of  course;  but  two  or  three  times  at  Bareilly  there 
was  in  addition  a  Criminal  Investigation  Department  man  present 
with  paper  and  pencil,  eagerly  taking  down  almost  every  word  of  the 
conversation*  I  found  this  exceedingly  irritating,  and  these  Interviews 
were  complete  failures* 

And  then  I  gave  up  these  precious  interviews  because  of  the  brutal 
treatment  my  mother  and  wife  had  received  in  the  course  of  an  inter 
view  in  the  Allahabad  Jail  and  afterward  from  the  Government*  For 
nearly  seven  months  I  had  no  interview*  It  was  a  dreary  time  for  me, 
and,  when  at  the  end  of  that  period  I  decided  to  resume  interviews 
and  my  people  came  to  sec  me,  I  was  almost  intoxicated  with  the  joy 

5 


of  it.  My  sister's  little  children  also  came  to  see  me,  and,  when  a  tiny 
one  wanted  to  mount  on  my  shoulder,  as  she  used  to  do,  it  was  more 
than  my  emotions  could  stand.  That  touch  of  home  life,  after  the  long 
yearning  for  human  contacts,  upset  me. 

When  interviews  stopped,  the  fortnightly  letters  from  home  or  from 
some  other  jail  (for  both  my  sisters  were  in  prison)  became  all  the 
more  precious  and  eagerly  expected.  If  the  letter  did  not  come  on  the 
appointed  day,  I  was  worried.  And  yet,  when  it  did  come,  I  almost 
hesitated  to  open  it.  I  played  about  with  it  as  one  does  with  an  assured 
pleasure,  and  at  the  back  of  my  mind  there  was  also  a  trace  of  fear 
lest  the  letter  contain  any  news  or  reference  which  might  annoy  me. 
Letter  writing  and  receiving  in  jail  were  always  serious  incursions  on  a 
peaceful  and  unruffled  existence.  They  produced  an  emotional  state 
which  was  disturbing;  for  a  day  or  two  afterward  one's  mind  wan 
dered,  and  it  was  difficult  to  concentrate  on  the  day's  work, 

In  Naini  Prison  and  Bareilly  Jail  I  had  had  several  companions. 
In  Dehra  Dun  there  were  three  of  us  to  begin  with— Govind  Ballabh 
Pant,  Kunwar  Anand  Singh  of  Kashipur,  and  I—but  Pantji  was  dis 
charged  after  a  couple  of  months  on  the  expiry  of  his  six  months*  Two 
others  joined  us  later.  By  the  beginning  of  January  1933  all  my  com 
panions  had  left  me,  and  I  was  alone*  For  nearly  eight  months*  till  my 
discharge  at  the  end  of  August,  I  lived  a  solitary  life  in  Dehra  Dun 
Jail  with  hardly  anyone  to  talk  to,  except  some  member  of  ihe  jail 
staff  for  a  few  minutes  daily*  This  was  not  technically  solitary  confine 
ment,  but  it  was  a  near  approach  to  it,  and  it  was  a  dreary  period  for 
me.  Fortunately  I  had  resumed  my  interviews,  and  they  brought  some 
relief.  As  a  special  favor,  I  suppose,  I  was  allowed  to  receive  fresh 
flowers  from  outside  and  to  keep  a  few  photographs,  and  they  cheered 
me  greatly.  Ordinarily,  flowers  and  photographs  are  not  permittedf  and 
on  several  occasions  I  have  not  been  allowed  to  receive  the  flowers 
that  had  been  sent  for  me.  Attempts  to  brighten  up  the  cclk  were  not 
encouraged,  and  I  remember  a  superintendent  of  a  jail  once  objecting 
to  the  manner  in  which  a  companion  of  mine,  whose  cell  wai  am  10 
mine,  had  arranged  his  toilet  articles.  He  was  told  that  he  must  not 
make  his  cell  look  attractive  and  "luxurious,**  The  articles  of  luxury 
were:  a  toothbrush,  tooth  paste,  fountain-pen  ink,  a  bottle  erf  hair  oil, 
a  brush  and  comb,  and  perhaps  one  or  two  other  litde  thiap. 

One  begins  to  appreciate  the  value  of  the  litde  things  of  life  in 
prison.  One's  belongings  are  so  few,  and  they  cannot  easily  be  added 
to  or  replaced;  one  clings  to  them  and  gathers  up  odd  bits  of  dungs 

6 


which.  In  the  world  outside,  would  go  to  the  wastepaper  basket.  The 
property  sense  does  not  leave  one  even  when  there  is  nothing  worth 
while  to  own  and  keep. 

Sometimes  a  physical  longing  would  come  for  the  soft  things  of  life 
—bodily  comfort^  pleasant  surroundings,  the  company  of  friends,  inter 
esting  conversation,  games  with  children, . , .  A  picture  or  a  paragraph 
in  a  newspaper  would  bring  the  old  days  vividly  before  one,  the  care 
free  days  of  youth,  a  nostalgia  would  seize  one,  and  the  day  would  be 
passed  in  restlessness. 

I  used  to  spin  a  little  daily,  for  I  found  some  manual  occupation 
soothing  and  a  relief  from  too  much  intellectual  work.  My  main  occu 
pation,  however,  was  reading  and  writing,  I  could  not  have  all  the 
books  I  wanted,  as  there  were  restrictions  and  a  censorship,  and  the 
censors  were  not  always  very  competent  for  the  job.  Spengler's  Dcdint 
of  the  West  was  held  up  because  the  title  looked  dangerous  and  sedi 
tious.  But  I  must  not  complain,  for  I  had,  on  the  whole,  a  goodly 
variety  of  books.  Again  I  seem  to  have  been  a  favored  person,  and 
many  of  my  colleagues  (A-Class  prisoners)  had  the  greatest  difficulty 
in  getting  books  on  current  topics,  In  Benares  Jail,  1  was  told,  even 
the  official  White  Paper,  containing  the  British  Government's  consti 
tutional  proposals,  was  not  allowed  in,  as  it  dealt  with  political  matters* 
The  only  books  that  British  officials  heartily  recommended  were  re 
ligious  books  or  novels.  It  is  wonderful  how  dear  to  the  heart  of  the 
British  Government  is  the  subject  of  religion  and  how  impartially  it 
encourages  all  brands  of  it. 

When  the  most  ordinary  civil  liberties  have  been  curtailed  in  India, 
it  is  hardly  pertinent  to  talk  of  a  prisoner's  rights.  And  yet  the  subject 
is  worthy  of  consideration.  If  a  court  of  law  sentences  a  person  to  im 
prisonment,  does  it  follow  that  not  only  his  body  but  also  his  mind 
should  be  incarcerated?  Why  should  not  the  minds  of  prisoners  be 
free  even  though  their  bodies  are  not?  Those  in  charge  of  the  prison 
administrations  in  India  will  no  doubt  be  horrified  at  such  a  question* 
for  their  capacity  for  new  ideas  and  sustained  thought  is  usually  lim* 
ited.  Censorship  is  bad  enough  at  any  time  and  is  partisan  and  stupid* 
In  India  it  deprives  us  of  a  great  deal  of  modern  literature  and  ad 
vanced  journals  and  newspapers.  The  list  of  proscribed  books  is 
extensive  and  is  frequently  added  to.  To  add  to  all  this,  the  prisoner 
has  to  suffer  a  second  and  separate  censorship,  and  thus  many  books 
and  newspapers  that  can  be  legally  purchased  and  read  outside  the 
prison  may  not  reach  him. 


Some  time  ago  this  question  arose  in  the  United  States*  in  the 
famous  Sing  Sing  Prison  of  New  York,  where  some  communist  news 
papers  had  been  banned.  The  feeling  against  communists  is  very  strong 
among  the  ruling  classes  in  America,  but  in  spite  of  this  the  prison 
authorities  agreed  that  the  inmates  of  the  prison  could  receive  any 
publication  which  they  desired,  including  communist  newspapers  and 
magazines.  The  sole  exception  made  by  the  warden  was  in  the  cise  of 
cartoons  which  he  regarded  as  inflammatory. 

It  is  a  little  absurd  to  discuss  this  question  of  freedom  of  mind  in 
prison  in  India  when,  as  it  happens,  the  vast  majority  of  the  prisoners 
are  not  allowed  any  newspapers  or  writing  materials.  It  is  not  a  ques 
tion  of  censorship  but  of  total  denial  Only  A-CLiss  prisoners  are 
allowed  writing  materials  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  not  even  all  these 
are  allowed  daily  newspapers.  The  daily  newspaper  allowed  is  of  the 
Government's  choice.  For  the  rest,  the  999  in  every  thousand,  two  or 
three  books  are  permitted  at  a  time,  but  conditions  are  such  that  they 
cannot  always  take  advantage  of  this  privilege.  Writing  or  the  taking 
of  notes  on  books  read  are  dangerous  pastimes  in  which  they  must  not 
indulge.  This  deliberate  discouragement  of  intellectual  development 
is  curious  and  revealing.  From  the  point  of  view  of  reclaiming  a  pris 
oner  and  of  making  him  a  fit  citizen,  his  mind  should  be  approached 
and  diverted,  and  he  should  be  made  literate  and  taught  some  craft. 
But  this  point  of  view  has  perhaps  not  struck  the  prison  authorities  in 
India.  Certainly  it  has  been  conspicuous  by  its  absence  in  the  United 
Provinces.  Recently  attempts  have  been  made  to  teach  reading  and 
writing  to  the  boys  and  young  men  in  prison,  but  they  arc  wholly 
ineffective,  and  the  men  in  charge  of  them  have  no  competence,  Some 
times  it  is  said  that  convicts  are  averse  to  learning,  My  own  experience 
has  been  the  exact  opposite,  and  I  found  many  of  them,  who  came  to 
me  for  the  purpose,  to  have  a  perfect  passion  for  learning  to  read  and 
write.  We  used  to  teach  such  convicts  as  came  our  way,  and  they 
worked  hard;  and  sometimes,  when  I  woke  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  I  was  surprised  to  find  one  or  two  of  them  sitting  by  a  dim 
lantern  inside  their  barrack,  learning  their  lessons  for  the  next  day, 

So  I  occupied  myself  with  my  books,  going  from  one  type  of  reading 
to  another,  but  usually  sticking  to  "heavy"  books,  Novels  made  one 
feel  mentally  slack,  and  I  did  not  read  many  of  them,  Sometimes  I 
would  weary  of  too  much  reading,  and  then  I  would  take  to  writing. 
My  historical  series  of  letters  to  my  daughter 2  kept  me  occupied  right 

'Now  published  under  the  tide  Glimpses  of  World 

8 


through  my  two-year  term,  and  they  helped  rne  very  greatly  to  keep 
mentally  fit.  To  some  extent  I  lived  through  the  past  I  was  writing 
about  and  almost  forgot  about  my  jail  surroundings. 

Travel  books  were  always  welcome— records  of  old  travelers,  Hiucn 
Tsang,  Marco  Polo,  Ibn  Battuta,  and  others,  or  moderns  like  Sven  Hedin, 
with  his  journeys  across  the  deserts  of  Central  Asia,  and  Roerich, 
finding  strange  adventures  in  Tibet  Picture  books  also,  especially  of 
mountains  and  glaciers  and  deserts,  for  in  prison  one  hungers  for  wide 
spaces  and  seas  and  mountains.  !  had  sonic  beautiful  picture  books  of 
Mont  Blanc,  the  Alps,  and  the  Himalayas,  and  I  turned  to  them  often 
to  gaze  at  the  glaciers  when  the  temperature  of  my  cell  or  barrack 
was  115°  F.  or  even  more.  An  atlas  was  an  exciting  affair*  It  brought 
aU  manner  of  past  memories  and  dreams  of  places  we  had  visited  and 
places  we  had  wanted  to  go  to.  The  longing  to  go  again  to  those 
haunts  of  past  days,  to  visit  all  the  other  inviting  marks  and  dots  that 
represented  great  cities,  to  cross  the  shaded  regions  that  were  moun 
tains  and  the  blue  patches  that  were  seas,  to  see  the  beauties  of  the 
world,  and  to  watch  the  struggles  and  conflicts  of  a  changing  humanity 
— the  longing  to  do  all  this  would  seize  us  and  clutch  us  by  the  throat; 
we  would  hurriedly  and  sorrowfully  put  the  atlas  by  and  return  to  the 
well-known  walls  that  surrounded  us  and  the  dull  routine  that  was 
our  daily  lot. 


II 

ANIMALS  IN  PRISON 

FOR  FOUIOTEN  AHD  a  half  months  I  lived  in  my  little  cell  or  room  in 
the  Dehra  Dun  Jail,  and  I  began  to  feel  as  if  I  were  almost  a  part  of 
it  I  was  familiar  with  every  bit  of  it;  I  knew  every  mark  and  dent  on 
the  whitewashed  walls  and  on  the  uneven  floor  and  the  ceiling  with 
its  moth-eaten  rafters.  In  the  little  yard  outside  I  greeted  little  tufts  of 
grass  and  odd  bits  of  stone  as  old  friends.  I  was  not  alone  in  my  cell, 
for  several  colonies  of  wasps  and  hornets  lived  there,  and  many  lizards 
found  a  home  behind  the  rafters,  emerging  in  the  evenings  in  search 
of  prey.  If  thoughts  and  emotions  leave  their  traces  behind  ia  the 
physical  surroundings,  the  very  air  of  that  cell  must  be  thick  with 
them,  and  they  must  cling  to  every  object  in  that  little  space, 
I  had  had  better  cells  in  other  prisons*  but  in  Dehra  Dun  I  had  one 


privilege  which  was  very  precious  to  me.  The  jail  proper  was  a  very 
small  one,  and  we  were  kept  in  an  old  lock-up  outside  the  jail  walls, 
but  within  the  jail  compound.  This  place  was  so  small  that  there  was 
no  room  to  walk  about  in  it,  and  so  we  were  allowed,  morning  and 
evening,  to  go  out  and  walk  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  gate,  a  dis 
tance  o£  about  a  hundred  yards.  We  remained  in  the  jail  compound, 
but  this  coining  outside  the  walls  gave  us  a  view  of  the  mountains  and 
the  fields  and  a  public  road  at  some  distance.  This  was  not  a  special 
privilege  for  me;  it  was  common  for  all  the  A-  and  B*Class  prisoners 
kept  at  Dehra  Dun.  Within  the  compound,  but  outside  the  jail  walls, 
there  was  another  small  building  called  the  European  Lock-up.  This 
had  no  enclosing  wall,  and  a  person  inside  the  ceil  could  have  a  fine 
view  of  the  mountains  and  the  life  outside.  European  convicts  and 
others  kept  here  were  also  allowed  to  walk  in  front  of  the  jail  gate 
every  morning  and  evening. 

Only  a  prisoner  who  has  been  confined  for  long  behind  high  walk 
can  appreciate  the  extraordinary  psychological  value  of  these  outside 
walks  and  open  views.  I  loved  these  outings,  and  I  did  not  give  them 
up  even  during  the  monsoon,  when  the  rain  came  down  for  days  in 
torrents  and  I  had  to  walk  ankle-deep  in  water.  I  would  have  wel 
comed  the  outing  in  any  place,  but  the  sight  of  the  towering  Hima 
layas  near  by  was  an  added  joy  which  went  a  long  way  to  removing 
the  weariness  of  prison.  It  was  my  good  fortune  that  during  the  long 
period  when  I  had  no  interviews,  and  when  for  many  months  I  was 
quite  alone,  I  could  gaze  at  these  mountains  that  I  loved.  1  could  0oc 
see  the  mountains  from  my  cell,  but  my  mind  was  full  of  them;  I  was 
ever  conscious  of  their  nearness,  and  a  secret  intimacy  seemed  to  grow 
between  us. 

Flocks  of  birds  have  -flown  high  and  away; 
A  solitary  drift  of  cloud,  too,  has  gone,  wandering  on* 
And  1  sit  alone  with  Ching-ttng  Pea\*  towering  beyond. 
We  never  grow  tired  of  each  otherf  the  mountain  and  L 

I  am  afraid  I  cannot  say  with  the  poet,  Li  Tai  Po,  that  I  never  grew 
weary,  even  of  the  mountain;  but  that  was  a  rare  experience,  and,  as  a 
rule,  I  found  great  comfort  in  its  proximity.  Its  solidity  and  imper 
turbability  looked  down  upon  me  with  the  wisdom  of  a  miUioo  years 
and  mocked  at  my  varying  humors  and  soothed  my  fevered  mi0d» 

Spring  was  very  pleasant  in  Dehra,  and  it  was  a  far  longer  one  thtfua 
in  the  plains  below.  The  winter  had  denuded  almost  all  the  trees  of 


10 


their  leaves,  and  they  stood  naked  and  bare.  Even  four  magnificent 
pipal  trees,  which  stood  in  front  of  the  jail  gate,  much  to  my  surprise, 
dropped  nearly  all  their  leaves.  Gaunt  and  cheerless  they  stood  there, 
til!  the  spring  air  warmed  them  up  again  and  sent  a  message  of  life 
to  their  innermost  cells.  Suddenly  there  was  a  stir  both  in  the  pipals 
and  the  other  trees,  and  an  air  of  mystery  surrounded  them  as  of  secret 
operations  going  on  behind  the  scenes;  and  I  would  be  startled  to  find 
little  bits  of  green  peeping  out  all  over  them.  It  was  a  gay  and  cheering 
sight.  And  then,  very  rapidly,  the  leaves  would  come  out  in  their  mil 
lions  and  glisten  in  the  sunlight  and  play  about  in  the  breeze,  How 
wonderful  is  the  sudden  change  from  bud  to  leaf! 

I  had  never  noticed  before  that  fresh  mango  leaves  are  reddish- 
brown,  russet  colored,  remarkably  like  the  autumn  tints  on  the  Kash 
mir  hills.  But  they  change  color  soon  and  become  green. 

The  monsoon  rains  were  always  welcome,  for  they  ended  the  sum 
mer  heat,  But  one  could  have  too  much  of  a  good  thing,  and  Dehra 
Dun  is  one  of  the  favored  haunts  of  the  rain  god,  Within  the  first  five 
or  six  weeks  of  the  break  of  the  monsoon  we  would  have  about  fifty 
or  sixty  inches  of  rain*  and  it  was  not  pleasant  to  sit  cooped  up  in  a 
little  narrow  place  trying  to  avoid  the  water  dripping  from  the  ceiling 
or  rushing  in  from  the  windows. 

Autumn  again  was  pleasant,  and  so  was  the  winter,  except  when  it 
rained.  With  thunder  and  rain  and  piercing  cold  winds,  one  longed 
for  a  decent  habitation  and  a  little  warmth  and  comfort  Occasionally 
there  would  be  a  hailstorm,  with  hailstones  bigger  than  marbles  com 
ing  down  on  the  corrugated  iron  roofs  and  making  a  tremendous 
noise,  something  like  an  artillery  bombardment. 

I  remember  one  day  particularly;  it  was  the  24th  of  December,  1932. 
There  was  a  thunderstorm  and  rain  all  day,  and  it  was  bitterly  cold. 
Altogether  it  was  one  of  the  most  miserable  days,  from  the  bodily 
point  of  view,  that  I  have  spent  in  jail.  In  the  evening  it  cleared  up 
suddenly,  and  all  my  misery  departed  when  I  saw  all  the  neighboring 
mountains  and  hills  covered  with  a  thick  mantle  of  snow.  The  next 
day — Christmas  Day — was  lovely  and  clear,  and  there  was  a  beautiful 
view  of  snow-covered  mountains. 

Prevented  from  indulging  in  normal  activities,  we  became  more 
observant  of  nature's  ways.  We  watched  also  the  various  animals  and 
insects  that  came  our  way.  As  I  grew  more  observant,  I  noticed  all 
manner  of  Insects  living  In  my  cell  or  in  the  little  yard  outside,  I  real 
ized  that  while  I  complained  of  loneliness  that  yard,  which  seemed 


empty  and  deserted,  was  teeming  with  life.  All  these  creeping  or 
crawling  or  flying  insects  lived  their  life  without  interfering  with  me 
in  any  way,  and  I  saw  no  reason  why  I  should  interfere  with  them. 
But  there  was  continuous  war  between  me  and  bedbugs,  mosquitoes, 
and,  to  some  extent,  flies.  Wasps  and  hornets  I  tolerated,  and  there 
were  hundreds  of  them  in  my  cell.  There  had  been  a  little  tiff  between 
us  when,  inadvertently  I  think,  a  wasp  had  stung  me.  In  my  anger  I 
tried  to  exterminate  the  lot,  but  they  put  up  a  brave  fight  in  defense 
of  their  temporary  home,  which  probably  contained  their  eggs,  and  I 
desisted  and  decided  to  leave  them  in  peace  if  they  did  not  interfere 
with  me  any  more.  For  over  a  year  after  that  I  lived  in  that  cell  sur 
rounded  by  these  wasps  and  hornets;  they  never  attacked  me,  and  we 
respected  each  other. 

Bats  I  did  not  like,  but  I  had  to  endure  them.  They  flew  soundlessly 
in  the  evening  dusk,  and  one  could  just  see  them  against  the  darken 
ing  sky.  Eerie  things;  I  had  a  horror  of  them.  They  seemed  to  pass 
within  an  inch  of  one's  face,  and  I  was  always  afraid  that  they  might 
hit  me.  Higher  up  in  the  air  passed  the  big  bats,  the  flying  foxes. 

I  used  to  watch  the  ants  and  the  white  ants  and  other  insects  by  the 
hour.  And  the  lizards  too  as  they  crept  about  in  the  evenings  and 
stalked  their  prey  and  chased  each  other,  wagging  their  tails  in  a  most 
comic  fashion.  Ordinarily  they  avoided  wasps,  but  twice  I  saw  them 
stalk  them  with  enormous  care  and  seize  them  from  the  front.  I  do 
not  know  if  this  avoidance  of  the  sting  was  intentional  or  accidental. 

Then  there  were  squirrels,  crowds  of  them  if  trees  were  about.  They 
would  become  very  venturesome  and  come  right  near  us.  In  Luck- 
now  Jail  I  used  to  sit  reading  almost  without  moving  for  considerable 
periods,  and  a  squirrel  would  climb  up  my  leg  and  sit  on  my  knee 
and  have  a  look  round.  And  then  it  would  look  into  my  eyes  and 
realize  that  I  was  not  a  tree  or  whatever  it  had  taken  me  for.  Fear 
would  disable  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  it  would  scamper  away.  Little 
baby  squirrels  would  sometimes  fall  down  from  the  trees.  The  mother 
would  come  after  them,  roll  them  up  into  a  little  ball,  and  carry  them 
off  to  safety.  Occasionally  the  baby  got  lost.  One  of  my  companions 
picked  up  three  of  these  lost  baby  squirrels  and  looked  after  them. 
They  were  so  tiny  that  it  was  a  problem  how  to  feed  them.  The  prob 
lem  was,  however,  solved  rather  ingeniously.  A  fountain-pen  filler, 
with  a  little  cotton  wool  attached  to  it,  made  an  efficient  feeding  bottle. 

Pigeons  abounded  in  all  the  jails  I  went  to,  except  in  the  mountain 
prison  of  Almora.  There  were  thousands  of  them,  and  in  the  evenings 

12 


the  sky  would  be  thick  with  them.  Sometimes  the  jail  officials  would 
shoot  them  down  and  feed  on  them.  There  were  mainas,  of  course; 
they  are  to  be  found  everywhere.  A  pair  of  them  nested  over  my  cell 
door  in  Dehra  Dun,  and  I  used  to  feed  them.  They  grew  quite  tame, 
and,  if  there  was  any  delay  in  their  morning  or  evening  meal,  they 
would  sit  quite  near  me  and  loudly  demand  their  food.  It  was  amusing 
to  watch  their  signs  and  listen  to  their  impatient  cries. 

In  Naini  there  were  thousands  of  parrots,  and  large  numbers  of 
them  lived  in  the  crevices  of  my  barrack  walls.  Their  courtship  and 
love-making  was  always  a  fascinating  sight,  and  sometimes  there  were 
fierce  quarrels  between  two  male  parrots  over  a  lady  parrot,  who  sat 
calmly  by  waiting  for  the  result  of  the  encounter  and  ready  to  grant 
her  favors  to  the  winner. 

Dehra  Dun  had  a  variety  of  birds,  and  there  was  a  regular  jumble  of 
singing  and  lively  chattering  and  twittering,,  and  high  above  it  all 
came  the  koePs  plaintive  call.  During  the  monsoon  and  just  before  it 
the  brain-fever  bird  visited  us,  and  I  realized  soon  why  it  was  so 
named.  It  was  amazing  the  persistence  with  which  it  went  on  repeat 
ing  the  same  notes,  in  daytime  and  at  night,  in  sunshine  and  in  pouring 
rain.  We  could  not  see  most  of  these  birds;  we  could  only  hear  them 
as  a  rule,  as  there  were  no  trees  in  our  little  yard.  But  I  used  to  watch 
the  eagles  and  the  kites  gliding  gracefully  high  up  in  the  air,  some 
times  swooping  down  and  then  allowing  themselves  to  be  carried  up 
by  a  current  of  air.  Often  a  flight  of  wild  duck  would  fly  over  our 
heads. 

There  was  a  large  colony  of  monkeys  in  Bareilly  Jail,  and  their 
antics  were  always  worth  watching.  One  incident  impressed  me.  A 
baby  monkey  managed  to  come  down  into  our  barrack  enclosure,  and 
he  could  not  mount  up  the  wall  again.  The  warder  and  some  convict 
overseers  and  other  prisoners  caught  hold  of  him  and  tied  a  bit  of 
string  round  his  neck.  The  parents  (presumably)  of  the  little  one  saw 
all  this  from  the  top  of  the  high  wall,  and  their  anger  grew.  Suddenly 
one  of  them,  a  huge  monkey,  jumped  down  and  charged  almost  right 
into  the  crowd  which  surrounded  the  baby  monkey.  It  was  an  extraor 
dinarily  brave  thing  to  do,  for  the  warder  and  C.O.'s  had  sticks  and 
lathees  which  they  were  brandishing  about,  and  there  were  quite  a 
crowd  of  them.  Reckless  courage  triumphed,  and  the  crowd  o£  hu 
mans  fled,  terrified,  leaving  their  sticks  behind  them !  The  little  monkey 
was  rescued. 

We  had  often  animal  visitors  that  were  not  welcome.  Scorpions 


were  frequently  found  in  our  cells,  especially  after  a  thunderstorm. 
It  was  surprising  that  I  was  never  stung  by  one,  for  I  would  come 
across  them  in  the  most  unlikely  places — on  my  bed,  or  sitting  on  a 
book  which  I  had  just  lifted  up.  I  kept  a  particularly  black  and 
poisonous-looking  brute  in  a  bottle  for  some  time,  feeding  him  with 
flies,  etc.;  and  then,  when  I  tied  him  up  on  a  wall  with  a  string,  he 
managed  to  escape.  I  had  no  desire  to  meet  him  loose  again,  and  so  I 
cleaned  my  cell  out  and  hunted  for  him  everywhere,  but  he  had 
vanished. 

Three  or  four  snakes  were  also  found  in  my  cells  or  near  them. 
News  of  one  of  them  got  out,  and  there  were  headlines  in  the  press. 
As  a  matter  of  fact  I  welcomed  the  diversion.  Prison  life  is  dull  enough, 
and  everything  that  breaks  through  the  monotony  is  appreciated.  Not 
that  I  appreciate  or  welcome  snakes,  but  they  do  not  fill  me  with 
terror  as  they  do  some  people.  I  am  afraid  of  their  bite,  of  course,  and 
would  protect  myself  if  I  saw  a  snake.  But  there  would  be  no  feeling 
of  repulsion  or  overwhelming  fright.  Centipedes  horrify  me  much 
more;  it  is  not  so  much  fear  as  instinctive  repulsion.  In  Alipore  Jail  in 
Calcutta  I  woke  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  felt  something  crawl 
ing  over  my  foot.  I  pressed  a  torch  I  had  and  I  saw  a  centipede  on  the 
bed.  Instinctively  and  with  amazing  rapidity  I  vaulted  clear  out  of  that 
bed  and  nearly  hit  the  cell  wall.  I  realized  fully  then  what  Pavlov's 
reflexes  were. 

In  Dehra  Dun  I  saw  a  new  animal,  or  rather  an  animal  which  was 
new  to  me.  I  was  standing  at  the  jail  gate  talking  to  the  jailer  when 
we  noticed  a  man  outside  carrying  a  strange  animal.  The  jailer  sent 
for  him,  and  I  saw  something  between  a  lizard  and  a  crocodile,  about 
two  feet  long  with  claws  and  a  scaly  covering.  This  uncouth  animal, 
which  was  very  much  alive,  had  been  twisted  round  in  a  most  peculiar 
way,  forming  a  kind  of  knot,  and  its  owner  had  passed  a  pole  through 
this  knot  and  was  merrily  carrying  it  in  this  fashion.  He  called  it  a  Bo. 
When  asked  by  the  jailer  what  he  proposed  to  do  with  it,  he  replied 
with  a  broad  smile  that  he  would  make  bhujji—z  kind  of  curry— out 
of  it!  He  was  a  forest  dweller.  Subsequently  I  discovered  from  read 
ing  F.  W.  Champion's  book— The  Jungle  in  Sunlight  and  Shadow— 
that  this  animal  was  the  pangolin. 

Prisoners,  especially  long-term  convicts,  have  to  suffer  most  from 
emotional  starvation.  Often  they  seek  some  emotional  satisfaction  by 
keeping  animal  pets.  The  ordinary  prisoner  cannot  keep  them,  but 
the  convict  overseers  have  a  little  more  freedom  and  the  jail 'staff 

M 


usually  do  not  object.  The  commonest  pets  were  squirrels  and, 
strangely,  mongooses.  Dogs  are  not  allowed  in  jails,  but  cats  seem  to  be 
encouraged.  A  little  kitten  made  friends  with  me  once.  It  belonged 
to  a  jail  official,  and,  when  he  was  transferred,  he  took  it  away  with 
him.  I  missed  it.  Although  dogs  are  not  allowed,  I  got  tied  up  with 
some  dogs  accidentally  in  Dehra  Dun.  A  jail  official  had  brought  a 
bitch,  and  then  he  was  transferred,  and  he  deserted  her.  The  poor  thing 
became  a  homeless  wanderer,  living  under  culverts,  picking  up  scraps 
from  the  warders,  usually  starving.  As  I  was  being  kept  in  the  lock 
up,  outside  the  jail  proper,  she  used  to  come  to  me  begging  for  food. 
I  began  to  feed  her  regularly,  and  she  gave  birth  to  a  litter  of  pups 
under  a  culvert.  Many  of  these  were  taken  away,  but  three  remained, 
and  I  fed  them.  One  of  the  puppies  fell  ill  with  a  violent  distemper 
and  gave  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  I  nursed  her  with  care,  and  some 
times  I  would  get  up  a  dozen  times  in  the  course  of  the  night  to  look 
after  her.  She  survived,  and  I  was  happy  that  my  nursing  had  pulled 
her  round. 

I  came  in  contact  with  animals  far  more  in  prison  than  I  had  done 
outside.  I  had  always  been  fond  of  dogs  and  had  kept  some,  but  I 
could  never  look  after  them  properly  as  other  matters  claimed  my 
attention.  In  prison  I  was  grateful  for  their  company.  Indians  do  not, 
as  a  rule,  approve  of  animals  as  household  pets.  It  is  remarkable  that, 
in  spite  of  their  general  philosophy  of  nonviolence  to  animals,  they 
are  often  singularly  careless  and  unkind  to  them.  Even  the  cow,  that 
favored  animal,  though  looked  up  to  and  almost  worshiped  by  many 
Hindus  and  often  the  cause  of  riots,  is  not  treated  kindly.  Worship 
and  kindliness  do  not  always  go  together. 

Different  countries  have  adopted  different  animals  as  symbols  of 
their  ambition  or  character — the  eagle  of  the  United  States  of  America 
and  of  Germany,  the  lion  and  bulldog  of  England,  the  fighting  cock 
of  France,  the  bear  of  old  Russia.  How  far  do  these  patron  animals 
mold  national  character?  Most  of  them  are  aggressive,  fighting  ani 
mals,  beasts  of  prey.  The  people  who  grow  up  with  these  examples 
before  them  appear  to  mold  themselves  consciously  after  them,  strike 
up  aggressive  attitudes,  roar,  and  prey  on  others.  The  Hindu  is  mild 
and  nonviolent,  for  his  patron  animal  is  the  cow. 


Ill 
DESCENT  FROM  KASHMIR 

"It  is  a  hard  and  nice  subject  for  a  man  to  write  of  himself:  it  grates  his 
own  heart  to  say  anything  of  disparagement,  and  the  reader  s  ears  to  hear 
anything  of  praise  for  him." — ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 

AN  ONLY  SON  of  prosperous  parents  is  apt  to  be  spoiled,  especially  so  in 
India.  And,  when  that  son  happens  to  have  been  an  only  child  for 
the  first  eleven  years  of  his  existence,  there  is  little  hope  for  him  to 
escape  this  spoiling.  My  two  sisters  are  very  much  younger  than  I  am, 
and  between  each  pair  of  us  there  is  a  long  stretch  of  years.  And  so 
I  grew  up  and  spent  my  early  years  as  a  somewhat  lonely  child  with 
no  companions  of  my  age.  I  did  not  even  have  the  companionship  of 
children  at  school,  for  I  was  not  sent  to  any  kindergarten  or  primary 
school.  Governesses  or  private  tutors  were  supposed  to  be  in  charge 
of  my  education. 

Our  house  itself  was  far  from  being  a  lonely  place,  for  it  sheltered 
a  large  family  of  cousins  and  near  relations,  after  the  manner  of  Hindu 
families.  But  all  my  cousins  were  much  older  than  I  was  and  were 
students  at  the  high  school  or  the  university  and  considered  me  far  too 
young  for  their  work  or  their  play.  And  so  in  the  midst  of  that  big 
family  I  felt  rather  lonely  and  was  left  a  great  deal  to  my  own  fancies 
and  solitary  games. 

We  were  Kashmiris.  Over  two  hundred  years  ago,  early  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  our  ancestor  came  down  from  that  mountain  valley 
to  seek  fame  and  fortune  in  the  rich  plains  below.  Those  were  the 
days  of  the  decline  of  the  Moghal  Empire.  Raj  Kaul  was  the  name  of 
that  ancestor  of  ours,  and  he  had  gained  eminence  as  a  Sanskrit  and 
Persian  scholar.  He  attracted  the  notice  of  the  Emperor  and,  probably 
at  his  instance,  the  family  migrated  to  Delhi,  the  imperial  capital,  about 
the  year  1716.  A  jagir  with  a  house  situated  on  the  banks  of  a  canal  had 
been  granted  to  Raj  Kaul,  and,  from  the  fact  of  this  residence,  "Nehru" 
(from  nahar,  a  canal)  came  to  be  attached  to  his  name.  Kaul  had  been 
the  family  name;  in  later  years,  this  dropped  out  and  we  became  simply 
Nehrus. 

The  family  experienced  many  vicissitudes  of  fortune  during  the  un 
settled  times  that  followed,  and  the  jagir  dwindled  and  vanished  away. 
My  great-grandfather  became  the  first  vakil  of  the  "Sarkar  Company" 
at  the  shadow  court  of  the  Emperor  of  Delhi.  My  grandfather  was 

16 


Kotwal  of  Delhi  for  some  time  before  the  great  Revolt  of  1857.  He  died 
at  the  early  age  of  thirty-four  in  1861. 

The  Revolt  of  1857  put  an  end  to  our  family's  connection  with  Delhi, 
and  all  our  old  family  papers  and  documents  were  destroyed  in  the 
course  of  it.  The  family,  having  lost  nearly  all  it  possessed,  joined  the 
numerous  fugitives  who  were  leaving  the  old  imperial  city  and  went 
to  Agra.  My  father  was  not  born  then,  but  my  two  uncles  were  already 
young  men  and  possessed  some  knowledge  of  English.  This  knowledge 
saved  the  younger  of  the  two  uncles,  as  well  as  some  other  members 
of  the  family,  from  a  sudden  and  ignominious  end.  He  was  journeying 
from  Delhi  with  some  members  of  the  family,  among  whom  was  his 
young  sister,  a  little  girl  who  was  very  fair,  as  some  Kashmiri  chil 
dren  are.  Some  English  soldiers  met  them  on  the  way,  and  they  sus 
pected  this  little  aunt  of  mine  to  be  an  English  girl  and  accused  my 
uncle  of  kidnaping  her.  From  an  accusation  to  summary  justice  and 
punishment  was  usually  a  matter  of  minutes  in  those  days,  and  my 
uncle  and  others  of  the  family  might  well  have  found  themselves  hang 
ing  on  the  nearest  tree.  Fortunately  for  them,  my  uncle's  knowledge 
of  English  delayed  matters  a  little,  and  then  someone  who  knew  him 
passed  that  way  and  rescued  him  and  the  others. 

For  some  years  the  family  lived  in  Agra,  and  it  was  in  Agra  on 
the  sixth  of  May,  1861,  that  my  father  was  born.1  But  he  was  a  post 
humous  child  as  my  grandfather  had  died  three  months  earlier.  In  a 
little  painting  that  we  have  of  my  grandfather,  he  wears  the  Moghal 
court  dress  with  a  curved  sword  in  his  hand,  and  might  well  be  taken 
for  a  Moghal  nobleman,  although  his  features  are  distinctly  Kashmiri. 

The  burden  of  the  family  then  fell  on  my  two  uncles,  who  were  very 
much  older  than  my  father.  The  elder  uncle  entered  the  judicial  de 
partment  of  the  British  Government  and,  being  appointed  to  various 
places,  was  partly  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  family.  The  younger 
uncle  entered  the  service  of  an  Indian  State.  Later  he  settled  down  as  a 
practicing  lawyer  in  Agra.  My  father  lived  with  him  and  grew  up 
under  his  sheltering  care.  The  two  were  greatly  attached  to  each 
other,  and  their  relation  was  a  strange  mixture  of  the  brotherly 
and  the  paternal  and  filial.  My  father,  being  the  last  comer,  was  of 
course  my  grandmother's  favorite  son,  and  she  was  an  old  lady  with 
a  tremendous  will  of  her  own  who  was  not  accustomed  to  be  ignored. 
It  is  now  nearly  half  a  century  since  her  death,  but  she  is  still  remem- 

1An  interesting  coincidence:  The  poet,  Rabindranath  Tagore,  was  also  born  on  this 
very  day,  month,  and  year. 

17 


bered  among  old  Kashmiri  ladies  as  a  most  dominating  old  woman 
and  quite  a  terror  if  her  will  was  flouted. 

My  uncle  attached  himself  to  the  newly  established  High  Court,  and, 
when  this  court  moved  to  Allahabad  from  Agra,  the  family  moved 
with  it.  Since  then  Allahabad  has  been  our  home,  and  it  was  there, 
many  years  later,  that  I  was  born.  My  uncle  gradually  developed  an 
extensive  practice  and  became  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  High  Court 
Bar.  Meanwhile  my  father  was  going  through  school  and  college  in 
Cawnpore  and  Allahabad.  His  early  education  was  confined  entirely 
to  Persian  and  Arabic,  and  he  only  began  learning  English  in  his  early 
teens.  But  at  that  age  he  was  considered  to  be  a  good  Persian  scholar, 
and  knew  some  Arabic  also,  and  because  of  this  knowledge  was  treated 
with  respect  by  much  older  people.  But  in  spite  of  this  early  precocity 
his  school  and  college  career  was  chiefly  notable  for  his  numerous 
pranks  and  escapades.  He  was  very  far  from  being  a  model  pupil  and 
took  more  interest  in  games  and  novel  adventures  than  in  study.  He 
was  looked  upon  as  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  rowdy  element  in  the 
college.  He  was  attracted  to  Western  dress  and  other  Western  ways 
at  a  time  when  it  was  uncommon  for  Indians  to  take  to  them  except 
in  big  cities  like  Calcutta  and  Bombay.  Though  he  was  a  little  wild  in 
his  behavior,  his  English  professors  were  fond  of  him  and  often  got 
him  out  of  a  scrape.  They  liked  his  spirit,  and  he  was  intelligent,  and 
with  an  occasional  spurt  he  managed  to  do  fairly  well  even  in  class. 
He  got  through  his  various  university  examinations  without  any  spe 
cial  distinction,  and  then  he  appeared  for  his  final,  the  B  A.  He  had  not 
taken  the  trouble  to  work  much  for  it,  and  he  was  greatly  dissatisfied 
with  the  way  he  had  done  the  first  paper.  Not  expecting  to  pass  the 
examination,  as  he  thought  he  had  spoiled  the  first  paper,  he  decided 
to  boycott  the  rest  of  the  examination,  and  he  spent  his  time  instead 
at  the  Taj  Mahal.  (The  university  examinations  were  held  then  at 
Agra.)  Subsequently  his  professor  sent  for  him  and  was  very  angry 
with  him,  for  he  said  that  he  (my  father)  had  done  the  first  paper 
fairly  well  and  he  had  been  a  fool  for  not  appearing  for  the  other 
papers.  Anyhow  this  ended  my  father's  university  career.  He  was  never 
graduated. 

He  was  keen  on  getting  on  in  life  and  establishing  himself  in  a  pro 
fession.  Naturally  he  looked  to  the  law  as  that  was  the  only  profession 
then,  in  India,  which  offered  any  opening  for  talent  and  prizes  for  the 
successful.  He  also  had  his  brother's  example  before  him.  He  appeared 
for  the  High  Court  vakils'  examination  and  not  only  passed  it  but 

18 


topped  the  list  and  got  a  gold  medal  for  it.  He  had  found  the  subject 
after  his  own  heart,  or,  rather,  he  was  intent  on  success  in  the  profes 
sion  of  his  choice. 

He  started  practice  in  the  district  courts  of  Cawnpore  and,  being 
eager  to  succeed,  worked  hard  at  it  and  soon  got  on  well.  But  his  love 
for  games  and  other  amusements  and  diversions  continued  and  still 
took  up  part  of  his  time.  In  particular,  he  was  keen  on  wrestling.  Cawn 
pore  was  famous  for  public  wrestling  matches  in  those  days. 

After  serving  his  apprenticeship  for  three  years  at  Cawnpore,  father 
moved  to  Allahabad  to  work  in  the  High  Court.  Not  long  after  this 
his  brother,  Pandit  Nand  Lai,  suddenly  died.  That  was  a  terrible  blow 
for  my  father;  it  was  a  personal  loss  of  a  dearly  loved  brother  who 
had  almost  been  a  father  to  him,  and  the  removal  of  the  head  and 
principal  earning  member  of  the  family.  Henceforward  the  burden  of 
carrying  on  a  large  family  mainly  fell  on  his  young  shoulders. 

He  plunged  into  his  work,  bent  on  success,  and  for  many  months 
cut  himself  off  from  everything  else.  Nearly  all  of  my  uncle's  briefs 
came  to  him,  and,  as  he  happened  to  do  well  in  them,  the  professional 
success  that  he  so  ardently  desired  soon  came  his  way  and  brought 
him  both  additional  work  and  money.  At  an  early  age  he  had  estab 
lished  himself  as  a  successful  lawyer,  and  he  paid  the  price  for  this  by 
becoming  more  and  more  a  slave  to  his  jealous  mistress — the  law.  He 
had  no  time  for  any  other  activity,  public  or  private,  and  even  his 
vacations  and  holidays  were  devoted  to  his  legal  practice.  The  National 
Congress2  was  just  then  attracting  the  attention  of  the  English- 
knowing  middle  classes,  and  he  visited  some  of  its  early  sessions  and 
gave  it  a  theoretical  allegiance.  But  in  those  days  he  took  no  great 
interest  in  its  work.  He  was  too  busy  with  his  profession.  Besides,  he 
felt  unsure  of  his  ground  in  politics  and  public  affairs;  he  had  paid  no 
great  attention  to  these  subjects  till  then  and  knew  little  about  them. 
He  had  no  wish  to  join  any  movement  or  organization  where  he  would 
have  to  play  second  fiddle.  The  aggressive  spirit  of  his  childhood  and 
early  youth  had  been  outwardly  curbed,  but  it  had  taken  a  new  form, 
a  new  will  to  power.  Directed  to  his  profession,  it  brought  success  and 
increased  his  pride  and  self-reliance.  He  loved  a  fight,  a  struggle  against 
odds,  and  yet,  curiously,  in  those  days  he  avoided  the  political  field. 
It  is  true  that  there  was  little  of  fight  then  in  the  politics  of  the  Na- 

3  The  Indian  National  Congress  had  been  formed  a  few  years  before,  in  1885,  largely 
by  Hindus  of  the  student  and  professional  classes,  in  protest  against  a  number  of  dis 
criminatory  measures  adopted  by  the  British  Government. — Ed. 


tional  Congress.  However,  the  ground  was  unfamiliar,  and  his  mind 
was  full  of  the  hard  work  that  his  profession  involved.  He  had  taken 
firm  grip  of  the  ladder  of  success,  and  rung  by  rung  he  mounted 
higher,  not  by  anyone's  favor,  as  he  felt,  not  by  any  service  of  another, 
but  by  his  own  will  and  intellect. 

He  was,  of  course,  a  nationalist  in  a  vague  sense  of  the  word,  but 
he  admired  Englishmen  and  their  ways.  He  had  a  feeling  that  his  own 
countrymen  had  fallen  low  and  almost  deserved  what  they  had  got. 
And  there  was  just  a  trace  of  contempt  in  his  mind  for  the  politicians 
who  talked  and  talked  without  doing  anything,  though  he  had  no 
idea  at  all  as  to  what  else  they  could  do.  Also  there  was  the  thought, 
born  in  the  pride  of  his  own  success,  that  many — certainly  not  all — of 
those  who  took  to  politics  had  been  failures  in  life. 

An  ever-increasing  income  brought  many  changes  in  our  ways  o£ 
living,  for  an  increasing  income  meant  increasing  expenditure.  The 
idea  of  hoarding  money  seemed  to  my  father  a  slight  on  his  own  ca 
pacity  to  earn  whenever  he  liked  and  as  much  as  he  desired.  Full  of 
the  spirit  of  play  and  fond  of  good  living  in  every  way,  he  found  no 
difficulty  in  spending  what  he  earned.  And  gradually  our  ways  became 
more  and  more  Westernized. 

Such  was  our  home  in  the  early  days  of  my  childhood.3 


IV 

CHILDHOOD 

MY  CHILDHOOD  WAS  thus  a  sheltered  and  uneventful  one.  I  listened  to 
the  grown-up  talk  of  my  cousins  without  always  understanding  all  of 
it.  Often  this  talk  related  to  the  overbearing  character  and  insulting 
manners  of  the  English  people,  as  well  as  Eurasians,  toward  Indians, 
and  how  it  was  the  duty  of  every  Indian  to  stand  up  to  this  and  not 
to  tolerate  it.  Instances  of  conflicts  between  the  rulers  and  the  ruled 
were  common  and  were  fully  discussed.  It  was  a  notorious  fact  that 
whenever  an  Englishman  killed  an  Indian  he  was  acquitted  by  a  jury 
of  his  own  countrymen.  In  railway  trains  compartments  were  reserved 
for  Europeans,  and,  however  crowded  the  train  might  be — and  they 

I  was  born  in  Allahabad  on  November  14,  1889,  or,  according  to  the  Samvat  calen 
dar,  Margshirsh  Badi  7,  1946. 

20 


used  to  be  terribly  crowded — no  Indian  was  allowed  to  travel  in  them, 
even  though  they  were  empty.  Even  an  unreserved  compartment 
would  be  taken  possession  of  by  an  Englishman,  and  he  would  not 
allow  any  Indian  to  enter  it.  Benches  and  chairs  were  also  reserved 
for  Europeans  in  public  parks  and  other  places.  I  was  filled  with  re 
sentment  against  the  alien  rulers  of  my  country  who  misbehaved  in 
this  manner;  and,  whenever  an  Indian  hit  back,  I  was  glad.  Not  in 
frequently  one  of  my  cousins  or  one  of  their  friends  became  personally 
involved  in  these  individual  encounters,  and  then  of  course  we  all  got 
very  excited  over  it.  One  of  the  cousins  was  the  strong  man  of  the 
family,  and  he  loved  to  pick  a  quarrel  with  an  Englishman,  or  more 
frequently  with  Eurasians,  who,  perhaps  to  show  off  their  oneness  with 
the  ruling  race,  were  often  even  more  offensive  than  the  English  offi 
cial  or  merchant.  Such  quarrels  took  place  especially  during  railway 
journeys. 

Much  as  I  began  to  resent  the  presence  and  behavior  of  the  alien 
rulers,  I  had  no  feeling  whatever,  so  far  as  I  can  remember,  against 
individual  Englishmen.  I  had  had  English  governesses,  and  occasion 
ally  I  saw  English  friends  of  my  father's  visiting  him.  In  my  heart  I 
rather  admired  the  English. 

In  the  evenings  usually  many  friends  came  to  visit  father,  and  he 
would  relax  after  the  tension  of  the  day,  and  the  house  would  resound 
with  his  tremendous  laughter.  His  laugh  became  famous  in  Allahabad. 
Sometimes  I  would  peep  at  him  and  his  friends  from  behind  a  curtain 
trying  to  make  out  what  these  great  big  people  said  to  each  other.  If 
I  was  caught  in  the  act,  I  would  be  dragged  out  and,  rather  frightened, 
made  to  sit  for  a  while  on  father's  knee.  Once  I  saw  him  drinking  claret 
or  some  other  red  wine.  Whisky  I  knew.  I  had  often  seen  him  and  his 
friends  drink  it.  But  the  new  red  stuff  filled  me  with  horror,  and  I 
rushed  to  my  mother  to  tell  her  that  father  was  drinking  blood. 

I  admired  father  tremendously.  He  seemed  to  me  the  embodiment 
of  strength  and  courage  and  cleverness,  far  above  all  the  other  men 
I  saw,  and  I  treasured  the  hope  that  when  I  grew  up  I  would  be  rather 
like  him.  But  much  as  I  admired  him  and  loved  him  I  feared  him 
also.  I  had  seen  him  lose  his  temper  at  servants  and  others;  he  seemed 
to  me  terrible  then,  and  I  shivered  with  fright,  mixed  sometimes  with 
resentment,  at  the  treatment  of  a  servant.  His  temper  was  indeed  an 
awful  thing,  and  even  in  after  years  I  do  not  think  I  ever  came  across 
anything  to  match  it  in  its  own  line.  But,  fortunately,  he  had  a  strong 
sense  of  humor  also  and  an  iron  will,  and  he  could  control  himself  as 

21 


a  rule.  As  he  grew  older  this  power  of  control  grew,  and  it  was  very 
rare  for  him  to  indulge  in  anything  like  his  old  temper. 

One  of  my  earliest  recollections  is  of  this  temper,  for  I  was  the 
victim  of  it.  I  must  have  been  about  five  or  six  then.  I  noticed  one  day 
two  fountain  pens  on  his  office  table,  and  I  looked  at  them  with  greed. 
I  argued  with  myself  that  father  could  not  require  both  at  the  same 
time,  and  so  I  helped  myself  to  one  of  them.  Later  I  found  that  a 
mighty  search  was  being  made  for  the  lost  pen,  and  I  grew  frightened 
at  what  I  had  done,  but  I  did  not  confess.  The  pen  was  discovered 
and  my  guilt  proclaimed  to  the  world.  Father  was  very  angry,  and 
he  gave  me  a  tremendous  thrashing.  Almost  blind  with  pain  and  mor 
tification  at  my  disgrace,  I  rushed  to  mother,  and  for  several  days 
various  creams  and  ointments  were  applied  to  my  aching  and  quiver 
ing  little  body. 

I  do  not  remember  bearing  any  ill  will  toward  my  father  because 
of  this  punishment.  I  think  I  must  have  felt  that  it  was  a  just  punish 
ment,  though  perhaps  overdone.  But,  though  my  admiration  and  affec 
tion  for  him  remained  as  strong  as  ever,  fear  formed  a  part  of  them. 
Not  so  with  my  mother.  I  had  no  fear  of  her,  for  I  knew  that  she 
would  condone  everything  I  did,  and,  because  of  her  excessive  and 
indiscriminating  love  for  me,  I  tried  to  dominate  over  her  a  little.  I 
saw  much  more  of  her  than  I  did  of  father,  and  she  seemed  nearer  to 
me,  so  I  would  confide  in  her  when  I  would  not  dream  of  doing  so 
to  father.  She  was  petite  and  short  of  stature,  and  soon  I  was  almost 
as  tall  as  she  was  and  felt  more  of  an  equal  with  her.  I  admired  her 
beauty  and  loved  her  amazingly  small  and  beautiful  hands  and  feet. 
She  belonged  to  a  fresher  stock  from  Kashmir,  and  her  people  had  only 
left  the  homeland  two  generations  back. 

Another  of  my  early  confidants  was  a  munshi  of  my  father's,  Mun- 
shi  Mubarak  Ali.  He  came  from  a  well-to-do  family  of  Badaun.  The 
Revolt  of  1857  had  ruined  the  family,  and  the  English  troops  had 
partly  exterminated  it.  This  affliction  had  made  him  gentle  and  for 
bearing  with  everybody,  especially  with  children,  and  for  me  he  was 
a  sure  haven  of  refuge  whenever  I  was  unhappy  or  in  trouble.  With 
his  fine  gray  beard  he  seemed  to  my  young  eyes  very  ancient  and 
full  of  old-time  lore,  and  I  used  to  snuggle  up  to  him  and  listen,  wide- 
eyed,  by  the  hour  to  his  innumerable  stories— old  tales  from  the  Ara 
bian  Nights  or  other  sources,  or  accounts  of  the  happenings  in  1857 
and  1858.  It  was  many  years  later,  when  I  was  grown  up,  that  "Mun- 

22 


shiji"  died,  and  the  memory  of  him  still  remains  with  me  as  a  dear 
and  precious  possession. 

There  were  other  stones  also  that  I  listened  to,  stories  from  the  old 
Hindu  mythology,  from  the  epics,  the  Ramayana  and  the  Maha- 
bharata,  that  my  mother  and  aunt  used  to  tell  us.  My  aunt,  the  widow 
of  Pandit  Nand  Lai,  was  learned  in  the  old  Indian  books  and  had 
an  inexhaustible  supply  of  these  tales,  and  my  knowledge  of  Indian 
mythology  and  folklore  became  quite  considerable. 

Of  religion  I  had  very  hazy  notions.  It  seemed  to  be  a  woman's  affair, 
Father  and  my  older  cousins  treated  the  question  humorously  and 
refused  to  take  it  seriously.  The  women  of  the  family  indulged  in 
various  ceremonies  and  pujas  from  time  to  time,  and  I  rather  enjoyed 
them,  though  I  tried  to  imitate  to  some  extent  the  casual  attitude  of 
the  grown-up  men  of  the  family.  Sometimes  I  accompanied  my  mother 
or  aunt  to  the  Ganges  for  a  dip,  sometimes  we  visited  temples  in  Al 
lahabad  itself  or  in  Benares  or  elsewhere,  or  went  to  see  a  sanyasi  re 
puted  to  be  very  holy.  But  all  this  left  little  impression  on  my  mind. 

Then  there  were  the  great  festival  days — the  Holi,  when  all  over 
the  city  there  was  a  spirit  of  revelry  and  we  could  squirt  water  at  each 
other;  the  Divali,  the  festival  of  light,  when  all  the  houses  were  lit  up 
with  thousands  of  dim  lights  in  earthen  cups;  the  Janmashtami,  to 
celebrate  the  birth  in  prison  of  Krishna  at  the  midnight  hour  (but  it 
was  very  difficult  for  us  to  keep  awake  till  then);  the  Dasehra  and 
Ram  Lila,  when  tableaux  and  processions  re-enacted  the  old  story  of 
Ramachandra  and  his  conquest  of  Lanka,  and  vast  crowds  assembled 
to  see  them.  All  the  children  also  went  to  see  the  Moharram  proces 
sions  with  their  silken  alums  and  their  sorrowful  celebration  of  the 
tragic  story  of  Hasan  and  Husain  in  distant  Arabia,  And  on  the  two 
Id  days  Munshiji  would  dress  up  in  his  best  attire  and  go  to  the  big 
mosque  for  prayers,  and  I  would  go  to  his  house  and  consume  sweet 
vermicelli  and  other  dainties.  And  then  there  were  the  smaller  festi 
vals,  of  which  there  are  many  in  the  Hindu  calendar. 

Among  us  and  the  other  Kashmiris  there  were  also  some  special 
celebrations  which  were  not  observed  by  most  of  the  other  Hindus. 
Chief  of  these  was  the  Naoroz,  the  New  Year's  Day  according  to  the 
Samvat  calendar.  This  was  always  a  special  day  for  us  when  all  of 
us  wore  new  clothes,  and  the  young  people  of  the  house  got  small 
sums  of  money  as  presents. 

But  more  than  all  these  festivals  I  was  interested  in  one  annual 
event  in  which  I  played  the  central  part — the  celebration  of  the  anni- 

23 


versary  of  my  birth.  This  was  a  day  of  great  excitement  for  me.  Early 
in  the  morning  I  was  weighed  in  a  huge  balance  against  some  bagfuls 
of  wheat  and  other  articles  which  were  then  distributed  to  the  poor; 
and  then  I  arrayed  myself  in  new  clothes  and  received  presents,  and 
later  in  the  day  there  was  a  party.  I  felt  the  hero  of  the  occasion.  My 
chief  grievance  was  that  my  birthday  came  so  rarely.  Indeed,  I  tried 
to  start  an  agitation  for  more  frequent  birthdays.  I  did  not  realize 
then  that  a  time  would  come  when  birthdays  would  become  unpleasant 
reminders  of  advancing  age. 

Sometimes  the  whole  family  journeyed  to  a  distant  town  to  attend 
a  marriage,  either  of  a  cousin  of  mine  or  of  some  more  distant  rela 
tion  or  friend.  Those  were  exciting  journeys  for  us  children,  for  all 
rules  were  relaxed  during  these  marriage  festivities,  and  we  had  the 
free  run  of  the  place.  Numerous  families  usually  lived  crowded  to 
gether  in  the  shadi-J^hana,  the  marriage  house,  where  the  party  stayed, 
and  there  were  many  boys  and  girls  and  children.  On  these  occasions 
I  could  not  complain  of  loneliness,  and  we  had  our  heart's  fill  of  play 
and  mischief,  with  an  occasional  scolding  from  our  elders. 

Indian  marriages,  both  among  the  rich  and  the  poor,  have  had  their 
full  share  of  condemnation  as  wasteful  and  extravagant  display.  They 
deserve  all  this.  Even  apart  from  the  waste,  it  is  most  painful  to  see 
the  vulgar  display  which  has  no  artistic  or  aesthetic  value  of  any  kind. 
(Needless  to  say  there  are  exceptions.)  For  all  this  the  really  guilty 
people  are  the  middle  classes.  The  poor  are  also  extravagant,  even  at 
the  cost  of  burdensome  debts,  but  it  is  the  height  of  absurdity  to  say, 
as  some  people  do,  that  their  poverty  is  due  to  their  social  customs. 
It  is  often  forgotten  that  the  life  of  the  poor  is  terribly  dull  and  mo 
notonous,  and  an  occasional  marriage  celebration,  bringing  with  it  some 
feasting  and  singing,  comes  to  them  as  an  oasis  in  a  desert  of  soulless 
toil,  a  refuge  from  domesticity  and  the  prosaic  business  of  life.  Who 
would  be  cruel  enough  to  deny  this  consolation  to  them,  who  have 
such  few  occasions  for  laughter?  Stop  waste  by  all  means,  lessen  the 
extravagance  (big  and  foolish  words  to  use  for  the  little  show  that  the 
poor  put  up  in  their  poverty!),  but  do  not  make  their  life  more  drab 
and  cheerless  than  it  is. 

So  also  for  the  middle'  classes.  Waste  and  extravagance  apart,  these 
marriages  are  big  social  reunions  where  distant  relations  and  old 
friends  meet  after  long  intervals.  India  is  a  big  country,  and  it  is  not 
easy  for  friends  to  meet,  and  for  many  to  meet  together  at  the  same 
time  is  still  more  difficult.  Hence  the  popularity  of  the  marriage  cele- 

24 


brations.  The  only  rival  to  them,  and  it  has  already  excelled  them  in 
many  ways  even  as  a  social  reunion,  is  the  political  gathering,  the 
various  conferences,  or  the  Congress! 

Kashmiris  have  had  one  advantage  over  many  others  in  India,  espe 
cially  in  the  north.  They  have  never  had  any  purdah,  or  seclusion  of 
women,  among  themselves.  Finding  this  custom  prevailing  in  the 
Indian  plains,  when  they  came  down,  they  adopted  it,  but  only  pardy 
and  in  so  far  as  their  relations  with  others  and  non-Kashmiris  were 
concerned.  That  was  considered  then  in  northern  India,  where  most 
of  the  Kashmiris  stayed,  an  inevitable  sign  of  social  status.  But  among 
themselves  they  stuck  to  the  free  social  life  of  men  and  women,  and 
every  Kashmiri  had  the  free  entree  into  any  Kashmiri  house.  In  Kash 
miri  feasts  and  ceremonies  men  and  women  met  together  and  sat  to 
gether,  though  often  the  women  would  sit  in  one  bunch.  Boys  and 
girls  used  to  meet  on  a  more  or  less  equal  footing.  They  did  not,  of 
course,  have  the  freedom  of  the  modern  West. 

So  passed  my  early  years.  Sometimes,  as  was  inevitable  in  a  large 
family,  there  were  family  squabbles.  When  these  happened  to  assume 
unusual  proportions,  they  reached  my 'father's  ears,  and  he  was  angry 
and  seemed  to  think  that  all  such  happenings  were  due  to  the  folly  of 
women.  I  did  not  understand  what  exactly  had  happened,  but  I  saw 
that  something  was  very  wrong  as  people  seemed  to  speak  in  a  pe 
culiarly  disagreeable  way  or  to  avoid  one  another.  I  felt  very  unhappy. 
Father's  intervention,  when  it  took  place,  shook  us  all  up. 

One  little  incident  of  those  early  days  stands  out  in  my  memory. 
I  must  have  been  about  seven  or  eight  then.  I  used  to  go  out  every 
day  for  a  ride  accompanied  by  a  sawar  from  a  cavalry  unit  then  sta 
tioned  in  Allahabad.  One  evening  I  had  a  fall  and  my  pony — a  pretty 
animal,  part  Arab— returned  home  without  me.  Father  was  giving 
a  tennis  party.  There  was  great  consternation,  and  all  the  members 
of  the  party,  headed  by  father,  formed  a  procession  in  all  kinds  of 
vehicles  and  set  out  in  search  of  me.  They  met  me  on  the  way,  and 
I  was  treated  as  if  I  had  performed  some  heroic  deed! 


V 

THEOSOPHY 

WHEN  i  WAS  ten  years  old,  we  changed  over  to  a  new  and  much  bigger 
house  which  my  father  named  "Anand  Bhawan."  This  house  had  a 
big  garden  and  a  swimming  pool,  and  I  was  full  of  excitement  at  the 
fresh  discoveries  I  was  continually  making.  Additional  buildings  were 
put  up,  and  there  was  a  great  deal  of  digging  and  construction,  and  I 
loved  to  watch  the  laborers  at  work. 

There  was  a  large  swimming  pool  in  the  house,  and  soon  I  learned 
to  swim  and  felt  completely  at  home  in  and  under  the  water.  During 
the  long  and  hot  summer  days  I  would  go  for  a  dip  at  all  odd  hours, 
many  times  a  day.  In  the  evening  many  friends  of  my  father's  came 
to  the  pool.  It  was  a  novelty,  and  the  electric  light  that  had  been  in 
stalled  there  and  in  the  house  was  an  innovation  for  Allahabad  in 
those  days.  I  enjoyed  myself  hugely  during  these  bathing  parties,  and 
an  unfailing  joy  was  to  frighten,  by  pushing  or  pulling,  those  who  did 
not  know  how  to  swim.  I  remember,  particularly,  Dr.  Tej  Bahadur 
Sapru,  who  was  then  a  junior  at  the  Allahabad  Bar.  He  knew  no  swim 
ming  and  had  no  intention  of  learning  it.  He  would  sit  on  the  first 
step  in  fifteen  inches  of  water,  refusing  absolutely  to  go  forward  even 
to  the  second  step,  and  shouting  loudly  if  anyone  tried  to  move  him. 
My  father  himself  was  no  swimmer,  but  he  could  just  manage  to  go 
the  length  of  the  pool  with  set  teeth  and  violent  and  exhausting  effort. 

The  Boer  War  was  then  going  on;  this  interested  me,  and  all  my 
sympathies  were  with  the  Boers.  I  began  to  read  the  newspapers  for 
news  of  the  fighting. 

A  domestic  event,  however,  just  then  absorbed  my  attention.  This 
was  the  birth  of  a  little  sister.  I  had  long  nourished  a  secret  grievance 
at  not  having  any  brothers  or  sisters  when  everybody  else  seemed  to 
have  them,  and  the  prospect  of  having  at  last  a  baby  brother  or  sister 
all  to  myself  was  exhilarating.  Father  was  then  in  Europe.  I  remember 
waiting  anxiously  in  the  veranda  for  the  event.  One  of  the  doctors 
came  and  told  me  of  it  and  added,  presumably  as  a  joke,  that  I  must 
be  glad  that  it  was  not  a  boy,  who  would  have  taken  a  share  in  my 
patrimony.  I  felt  bitter  and  angry  at  the  thought  that  anyone  should 
imagine  that  I  could  harbor  such  a  vile  notion. 

Father's  visit  to  Europe  led  to  an  internal  storm  in  the  Kashmiri 
Brahman  community  in  India.  He  refused  to  perform  any  prayashchit 

26 


or  purification  ceremony  on  his  return.  Some  years  previously  another 
Kashmiri  Brahman  had  gone  to  England  to  be  called  to  the  Bar. 
On  his  return  the  orthodox  members  of  the  community  had  re 
fused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him,  and  he  was  outcast,  although 
he  performed  the  prayashchit  ceremony.  This  had  resulted  in  the  split 
ting  up  of  the  community  into  two  more  or  less  equal  halves.  Many 
Kashmiri  young  men  went  subsequendy  to  Europe  for  their  studies 
and  on  their  return  joined  the  reformist  section,  but  only  after  a  formal 
ceremony  of  purification.  This  ceremony  itself  was  a  bit  of  a  farce, 
and  there  was  little  of  religion  in  it.  It  merely  signified  an  outward 
conformity  and  a  submission  to  the  group  will.  Having  done  so,  each 
person  indulged  in  all  manner  of  heterodox  activities  and  mixed  and 
fed  with  non-Brahmans  and  non-Hindus. 

Father  went  a  step  further  and  refused  to  go  through  any  ceremony 
or  to  submit  in  any  way,  even  outwardly  and  formally,  to  a  so-called 
purification.  A  great  deal  of  heat  was  generated,  chiefly  because  of 
father's  aggressive  and  rather  disdainful  attitude,  and  ultimately  a 
considerable  number  of  Kashmiris  joined  father,  thus  forming  a  third 
group.  Within  a  few  years  these  groups  gradually  merged  into  one 
another  as  ideas  changed  and  the  old  restrictions  fell.  Large  numbers 
of  Kashmiri  young  men  and  girls  have  visited  Europe  or  America 
for  their  studies,  and  no  question  has  arisen  of  their  performing  any 
ceremonies  on  their  return.  Food  restrictions  have  almost  entirely  gone, 
except  in  the  case  of  a  handful  of  orthodox  people,  chiefly  old  ladies, 
and  interdining  with  non-Kashmiris,  Moslems,  and  non-Indians  is  com 
mon.  Purdah  has  disappeared  among  Kashmiris  even  as  regards  other 
communities.  The  last  push  to  this  was  given  by  the  political  upheaval 
of  1930.  Intermarriage  with  other  communities  is  still  not  popular,  al 
though  (increasingly)  instances  occur.  Both  my  sisters  have  married 
non-Kashmiris,  and  a  young  member  of  our  family  has  recently  mar 
ried  a  Hungarian  girl.  The  objection  to  intermarriage  with  others  is 
not  based  on  religion;  it  is  largely  racial.  There  is  a  desire  among 
many  Kashmiris  to  preserve  our  group  identity  and  our  distinctive 
Aryan  features,  and  a  fear  that  we  shall  lose  these  in  the  sea  of  Indian 
and  non-Indian  humanity.  We  are  small  in  numbers  in  this  vast 
country. 

When  I  was  about  eleven,  a  new  resident  tutor,  Ferdinand  T. 
Brooks,  came  and  took  charge  of  me.  He  was  partly  Irish  (on  his 
father's  side),  and  his  mother  had  been  a  Frenchwoman  or  a  Belgian. 
He  was  a  keen  theosophist  who  had  been  recommended  to  my  father 

27 


by  Mrs.  Annie  Besant.  For  nearly  three  years  he  was  with  me,  and 
in  many  ways  he  influenced  me  greatly.  The  only  other  tutor  I  had 
at  the  time  was  a  dear  old  Pandit  who  was  supposed  to  teach  me 
Hindu  and  Sanskrit.  After  many  years'  effort  the  Pandit  managed  to 
teach  me  extraordinarily  little,  so  little  that  I  can  only  measure  my 
pitiful  knowledge  of  Sanskrit  with  the  Latin  I  learned  subsequently 
at  Harrow.  The  fault  no  doubt  was  mine.  I  am  not  good  at  languages, 
and  grammar  has  had  no  attraction  for  me  whatever. 

F.  T.  Brooks  developed  in  me  a  taste  for  reading,  and  I  read  a  great 
many  English  books,  though  rather  aimlessly.  I  was  well  up  in  chil 
dren's  and  boys'  literature;  the  Lewis  Carroll  books  were  great  fa 
vorites,  and  The  Jungle  Boo^s  and  Kim.  I  was  fascinated  by  Gustave 
Dore's  illustrations  to  Don  Quixote,  and  Fridtjof  Nansen's  Farthest 
North  opened  out  a  new  realm  of  adventure  to  me.  I  remember  read 
ing  many  of  the  novels  of  Scott,  Dickens,  and  Thackeray,  H.  G. 
Wells 's  romances,  Mark  Twain,  and  the  Sherlock  Holmes  stories.  I 
was  thrilled  by  the  Prisoner  of  Zenda,  and  Jerome  K.  Jerome's  Three 
Men  in  a  Boat  was  for  me  the  last  word  in  humor.  Another  book 
stands  out  still  in  my  memory;  it  was  Du  Maurier's  Trilby;  also  Perer 
Ibbetson.  I  also  developed  a  liking  for  poetry,  a  liking  which  has  to 
some  extent  endured  and  survived  the  many  other  changes  to  which 
I  have  been  subject. 

Brooks  also  initiated  me  into  the  mysteries  of  science.  We  rigged 
up  a  little  laboratory,  and  there  I  used  to  spend  long  and  interesting 
hours  working  out  experiments  in  elementary  physics  and  chemistry. 
Apart  from  my  studies,  F.  T.  Brooks  brought  a  new  influence  to 
bear  upon  me  which  affected  me  powerfully  for  a  while.  This  was 
theosophy.  He  used  to  have  weekly  meetings  of  theosophists  in  his 
rooms,  and  I  attended  them  and  gradually  imbibed  theosophical  phrase 
ology  and  ideas.  There  were  metaphysical  arguments,  and  discussions 
about  reincarnation  and  the  astral  and  other  supernatural  bodies,  and 
auras,  and  the  doctrine  of  karma,  and  references  not  only  to  big  books 
by  Madame  Blavatsky  and  other  theosophists  but  to  the  Hindu  scrip 
tures,  the  Buddhist  Dhammapada,  Pythagoras,  Apollonius  Tyanaeus, 
and  various  philosophers  and  mystics.  I  did  not  understand  much 
that  was  said,  but  it  all  sounded  very  mysterious  and  fascinating,  and 
I  felt  that  here  was  the  key  to  the  secrets  of  the  universe.-  For  the  first 
time  I  began  to  think,  consciously  and  deliberately,  of  religion  and 
other  worlds.  The  Hindu  religion  especially  went  up  in  my  estimation; 
not  the  ritual  or  ceremonial  part,  but  its  great  books,  the  Upanishads 

28 


and  the  Bhagavad  Gita.  I  did  not  understand  them,  of  course,  but 
they  seemed  very  wonderful.  I  dreamed  of  astral  bodies  and  imagined 
myself  flying  vast  distances.  This  dream  of  flying  high  up  in  the  air 
(without  any  appliance)  has  indeed  been  a  frequent  one  throughout 
my  life;  and  sometimes  it  has  been  vivid  and  realistic  and  the  country 
side  seemed  to  lie  underneath  me  in  a  vast  panorama.  I  do  not  know 
how  the  modern  interpreters  of  dreams,  Freud  and  others,  would  in 
terpret  this  dream. 

Mrs.  Annie  Besant  visited  Allahabad  in  those  days  and  delivered 
several  addresses  on  theosophical  subjects.  I  was  deeply  moved  by 
her  oratory  and  returned  from  her  speeches  dazed  and  as  in  a  dream. 
I  decided  to  join  the  Theosophical  Society,  although  I  was  only  thirteen 
then.  When  I  went  to  ask  father's  permission,  he  laughingly  gave  it; 
he  did  not  seem  to  attach  importance  to  the  subject  either  way.  I  was 
a  little  hurt  by  his  lack  of  feeling.  Great  as  he  was  in  many  ways  in 
my  eyes,  I  felt  that  he  was  lacking  in  spirituality.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
he  was  an  old  theosophist,  having  joined  the  Society  in  its  early  days 
when  Madame  Blavatsky  was  in  India.  Curiosity  probably  led  him  to 
it  more  than  religion,  and  he  soon  dropped  out  of  it;  but  some  of  his 
friends,  who  had  joined  with  him,  persevered  and  rose  high  in  the 
spiritual  hierarchy  of  the  Society. 

So  I  became  a  member  of  the  Theosophical  Society  at  thirteen,  and 
Mrs.  Besant  herself  performed  the  ceremony  of  initiation,  which  con 
sisted  of  good  advice  and  instruction  in  some  mysterious  signs,  prob 
ably  a  relic  of  freemasonry.  I  was  thrilled.  I  attended  the  Theosophical 
Convention  at  Benares  and  saw  old  Colonel  Olcott  with  his  fine  beard. 

Soon  after  F.  T.  Brooks  left  me  I  lost  touch  with  theosophy,  and  in 
a  remarkably  short  time  (partly  because  I  went  to  school  in  England) 
theosophy  left  my  life  completely.  But  I  have  no  doubt  that  those 
years  with  F.  T.  Brooks  left  a  deep  impress  upon  me,  and  I  feel  that 
I  owe  a  debt  to  him  and  to  theosophy.  But  I  am  afraid  that  theoso- 
phists  have  since  then  gone  down  in  my  estimation.  Instead  of  the 
chosen  ones  they  seem  to  be  very  ordinary  folk,  liking  security  better 
than  risk,  a  soft  job  more  than  the  martyr's  lot.  But  for  Mrs.  Besant 
I  always  had  the  warmest  admiration. 

The  next  important  event  that  I  remember  affecting  me  was  the 
Russo-Japanese  War.  Japanese  victories  stirred  up  my  enthusiasm,  and 
I  waited  eagerly  for  the  papers  for  fresh  news  daily.  I  invested  in  a 
large  number  of  books  on  Japan  and  tried  to  read  some  of  them.  I  felt 

29 


rather  lost  in  Japanese  history,  but  I  liked  the  knightly  tales  of  old 
Japan  and  the  pleasant  prose  of  Lafcadio  Hearn. 

Nationalistic  ideas  filled  my  mind.  I  mused  of  Indian  freedom  and 
Asiatic  freedom  from  the  thralldom  of  Europe.  I  dreamed  of  brave 
deeds,  of  how,  sword  in  hand,  I  would  fight  for  India  and  help  in 
freeing  her. 

I  was  fourteen.  Changes  were  taking  place  in  our  house.  My  older 
cousins,  having  become  professional  men,  were  leaving  the  common 
home  and  setting  up  their  own  households  separately.  Fresh  thoughts 
and  vague  fancies  were  floating  in  my  mind,  and  I  began  to  take  a 
little  more  interest  in  the  opposite  sex.  I  still  preferred  the  company 
of  boys  and  thought  it  a  little  beneath  my  dignity  to  mix  with  groups 
of  girls.  But  sometimes  at  Kashmiri  parties,  where  pretty  girls  were 
not  lacking,  or  elsewhere,  a  glance  or  a  touch  would  thrill  me. 

In  May  1905,  when  I  was  fifteen,  we  set  sail  for  England.  Father  and 
mother,  my  baby  sister  and  I,  we  all  went  together. 


VI 

HARROW  AND  CAMBRIDGE 

ON  A  MAY  day,  toward  the  end  of  the  month,  we  reached  London, 
reading  in  the  train  from  Dover  of  the  great  Japanese  sea  victory  at 
Tsushima.  I  was  in  high  good  humor.  The  very  next  day  happened 
to  be  Derby  Day,  and  we  went  to  see  the  race. 

I  was  a  little  fortunate  in  finding  a  vacancy  at  Harrow,  for  I  was 
slightly  above  the  usual  age  for  entry,  being  fifteen.  My  family  went 
to  the  Continent,  and  after  some  months  they  returned  to  India. 

Never  before  had  I  been  left  among  strangers  all  by  myself,  and  I 
felt  lonely  and  homesick,  but  not  for  long.  I  managed  to  fit  in  to 
some  extent  in  the  life  at  school,  and  work  and  play  kept  me  busy. 
I  was  never  an  exact  fit.  Always  I  had  a  feeling  that  I  was  not  one  of 
them,  and  the  others  must  have  felt  the  same  way  about  me.  I  was 
left  a  little  to  myself.  But  on  the  whole  I  took  my  full  share  in  the 
games,  without  in  any  way  shining  at  them,  and  it  was,  I  believe, 
recognized  that  I  was  no  shirker. 

I  was  put,  to  begin  with,  in  a  low  form  because  of  my  small 
knowledge  of  Latin,  but  I  was  pushed  higher  up  soon.  In  many  sub- 

30 


jects  probably,  and  especially  in  general  knowledge,  I  was  in  advance 
of  those  of  my  age.  My  interests  were  certainly  wider,  and  I  read  both 
books  and  newspapers  more  than  most  of  my  fellow  students.  I 
remember  writing  to  my  father  how  dull  most  of  the  English  boys 
were  as  they  could  talk  about  nothing  but  their  games.  But  there 
were  exceptions,  especially  when  I  reached  the  upper  forms. 

I  was  greatly  interested  in  the  General  Election,  which  took  place, 
as  far  as  I  remember,  at  the  end  of  1905  and  which  ended  in  a  great 
Liberal  victory.  Early  in  1906  our  form  master  asked  us  about  the 
new  Government,  and,  much  to  his  surprise,  I  was  the  only  boy  in 
his  form  who  could  give  him  much  information  on  the  subject. 

Apart  from  politics  another  subject  that  fascinated  me  was  the  early 
growth  of  aviation.  Those  were  the  days  of  the  Wright  Brothers  and 
Santos-Dumont  (to  be  followed  soon  by  Farman,  Latham,  and  Bleriot), 
and  I  wrote  to  father  from  Harrow,  in  my  enthusiasm,  that  soon  I 
might  be  able  to  pay  him  a  week-end  visit  in  India  by  air. 

There  were  four  or  five  Indian  boys  at  Harrow  in  my  time.  I  seldom 
came  across  those  at  other  houses,  but  in  our  own  house — the  Head 
master's — we  had  one  of  the  sons  of  the  Gaekwar  of  Baroda.  He  was 
much  senior  to  me  and  was  popular  because  of  his  cricket.  He  left 
soon  after  my  arrival.  Later  came  the  eldest  son  of  the  Maharaja  of 
Kapurthala,  Paramjit  Singh,  now  the  Tikka  Sahib.  He  was  a  complete 
misfit  and  was  unhappy  and  could  not  mix  at  all  with  the  other  boys, 
who  often  made  fun  of  him  and  his  ways.  This  irritated  him  greatly, 
and  sometimes  he  used  to  tell  them  what  he  would  do  to  them  if 
they  came  to  Kapurthala.  Needless  to  say,  this  did  not  improve  matters 
for  him.  He  had  previously  spent  some  time  in  France  and  could 
speak  French  fluently,  but  oddly  enough,  such  were  the  methods  of 
teaching  foreign  languages  in  English  public  schools,  that  this  hardly 
helped  him  in  the  French  classes. 

A  curious  incident  took  place  once  when,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
the  housemaster  suddenly  visited  our  rooms  and  made  a  thorough 
search  all  over  the  house.  We  learned  that  Paramjit  Singh  had  lost 
his  beautiful  gold-mounted  cane.  The  search  was  not  successful.  Two 
or  three  days  later  the  Eton  and  Harrow  match  took  place  at  Lord's, 
and  immediately  afterward  the  cane  was  discovered  in  the  owner's 
room.  Evidently  someone  had  used  it  at  Lord's  and  then  returned  it. 

There  were  a  few  Jews  in  our  house  and  in  other  houses.  They 
got  on  fairly  well  but  there  was  always  a  background  of  anti-Semitic 
feeling.  They  were  the  "damned  Jews,"  and  soon,  almost  unconsciously, 

3* 


I  began  to  think  that  it  was  the  proper  thing  to  have  this  feeling.  I 
never  really  felt  anti-Semitic  in  the  least,  and,  in  later  years,  I  had 
many  good  friends  among  the  Jews. 

I  got  used  to  Harrow  and  liked  the  place,  and  yet  somehow  I  began 
to  feel  that  I  was  outgrowing  it.  The  university  attracted  me.  Right 
through  the  years  of  1906  and  1907  news  from  India  had  been  agitating 
me.  I  got  meager  enough  accounts  from  the  English  papers;  but  even 
that  little  showed  that  big  events  were  happening  at  home.  There 
were  deportations,  and  Bengal  seemed  to  be  in  an  uproar,  and  Tilak's * 
name  was  often  flashed  from  Poona,  and  there  was  Swadeshi 2  and 
boycott.  All  this  stirred  me  tremendously;  but  there  was  not  a 
soul  in  Harrow  to  whom  I  could  talk  about  it.  During  the  holidays 
I  met  some  of  my  cousins  or  other  Indian  friends  and  then  had  a 
chance  of  relieving  my  mind. 

A  prize  I  got  for  good  work  at  school  was  one  of  G.  M.  Trevelyan's 
Garibaldi  books.  This  fascinated  me,  and  soon  I  obtained  the  other 
two  volumes  of  the  series  and  studied  the  whole  Garibaldi  story  in 
them  carefully.  Visions  of  similar  deeds  in  India  carne  before  me,  of 
a  gallant  fight  for  freedom,  and  in  my  mind  India  and  Italy  got 
strangely  mixed  together.  Harrow  seemed  a  rather  small  and  restricted 
place  for  these  ideas,  and  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  wider  sphere  of  the 
university.  So  I  induced  father  to  agree  to  this  and  left  Harrow  after 
only  two  years'  stay,  which  was  much  less  than  the  usual  period. 

I  was  leaving  Harrow  because  I  wanted  to  do  so  myself,  and  yet, 
I  well  remember,  that  when  the  time  came  to  part  I  felt  unhappy 
and  tears  came  to  my  eyes.  I  had  grown  rather  fond  of  the  place,  and 
my  departure  for  good  put  an  end  to  one  period  in  my  life.  And  yet, 
I  wonder,  how  far  I  was  really  sorry  at  leaving  Harrow.  Was  it  not 
partly  a  feeling  that  I  ought  to  be  unhappy  because  Harrow  tradition 
and  song  demanded  it?  I  was  susceptible  to  these  traditions,  for  I  had 
deliberately  not  resisted  them  so  as  to  be  in  harmony  with  the  place. 
Cambridge,  Trinity  College,  the  beginning  of  October  1907,  my 
age  seventeen,  or  rather  approaching  eighteen.  I  felt  elated  at  being 
an  undergraduate  with  a  great  deal  of  freedom,  compared  to  school, 
to  do  what  I  chose.  I  had  got  out  of  the  shackles  of  boyhood  and  felt 
at  last  that  I  could  claim  to  be  a  grown-up.  With  a  self-conscious  air 

1  One  of  the  great  early  Nationalist  leaders. — Ed. 

fl  Meaning  literally,  "of  one's  own  country";  thus,  the  encouragement  of  Indian  trade 
and  industry,  associated  with  the  boycotting  of  British  products.— Ed. 

32 


I  wandered  about  the  big  courts  and  narrow  streets  o£  Cambridge, 
delighted  to  meet  a  person  I  knew. 

Three  years  I  was  at  Cambridge,  three  quiet  years  with  little  of 
disturbance  in  them,  moving  slowly  on  like  the  sluggish  Cam.  They 
were  pleasant  years,  with  many  friends  and  some  work  and  some  play 
and  a  gradual  widening  of  the  intellectual  horizon.  I  took  the  natural 
sciences  tripos,  my  subjects  being  chemistry,  geology,  and  botany,  but 
my  interests  were  not  confined  to  these.  Many  of  the  people  I  met 
at  Cambridge  or  during  the  vacations  in  London  or  elsewhere  talked 
learnedly  about  books  and  literature  and  history  and  politics  and 
economics.  I  felt  a  little  at  sea  at  first  in  this  semihighbrow  talk,  but  I 
read  a  few  books  and  soon  got  the  hang  of  it  and  could  at  least  keep 
my  end  up  and  not  betray  too  great  an  ignorance  on  any  of  the  usual 
subjects.  So  we  discussed  Nietzsche  (he  was  all  the  rage  in  Cambridge 
then)  and  Bernard  Shaw's  prefaces  and  the  latest  book  by  Lowes 
Dickinson.  We  considered  ourselves  very  sophisticated  and  talked  of 
sex  and  morality  in  a  superior  way,  referring  casually  to  Ivan  Block, 
Havelock  Ellis,  Kraft  Ebbing,  or  Otto  Weininger.  We  felt  that  we 
knew  about  as  much  of  the  theory  of  the  subject  as  anyone  who  was 
not  a  specialist  need  know. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  spite  of  our  brave  talk,  most  of  us  were  rather 
timid  where  sex  was  concerned.  At  any  rate  I  was  so,  and  my  knowl 
edge  for  many  years,  till  after  I  had  left  Cambridge,  remained  confined 
to  theory.  Why  this  was  so  it  is  a  little  difficult  to  say.  Most  of  us 
were  strongly  attracted  by  sex,  and  I  doubt  if  any  of  us  attached  any 
idea  of  sin  to  it.  Certainly  I  did  not;  there  was  no  religious  inhibition. 
We  talked  of  its  being  amoral,  neither  moral  nor  immoral.  Yet  in 
spite  of  all  this  a  certain  shyness  kept  me  away,  as  well  as  a  distaste 
for  the  usual  methods  adopted.  For  I  was  in  those  days  definitely  a 
shy  lad,  perhaps  because  of  my  lonely  childhood. 

My  general  attitude  to  life  at  the  time  was  a  vague  kind  of  Cyrenai- 
cism,  partly  natural  to  youth,  partly  the  influence  of  Oscar  Wilde  and 
Walter  Pater.  It  is  easy  and  gratifying  to  give  a  long  Greek  name  to 
the  desire  for  a  soft  life  and  pleasant  experiences.  But  there  was  some 
thing  more  in  it  than  that,  for  I  was  not  particularly  attracted  to  a 
soft  life.  Not  having  the  religious  temper  and  disliking  the  repressions 
of  religion,  it  was  natural  for  me  to  seek  some  other  standard.  I  was 
superficial  and  did  not  go  deep  down  into  anything.  And  so  the 
aesthetic  side  of  life  appealed  to  me,  and  the  idea  of  going  through 
life  worthily,  not  indulging  it  in  the  vulgar  way,  but  still  making  the 

33 


most  of  it  and  living  a  full  and  many-sided  life  attracted  me.  I  enjoyed 
life,  and  I  refused  to  see  why  I  should  consider  it  a  thing  of  sin.  At 
the  same  time  risk  and  adventure  fascinated  me;  I  was  always,  like 
my  father,  a  bit  of  a  gambler,  at  first  with  money  and  then  for  higher 
stakes,  with  the  bigger  issues  of  life.  Indian  politics  in  1907  and  1908 
were  in  a  state  of  upheaval,  and  I  wanted  to  play  a  brave  part  in  them, 
and  this  was  not  likely  to  lead  to  a  soft  life.  All  these  mixed  and 
sometimes  conflicting  desires  led  to  a  medley  in  my  mind.  Vague  and 
confused  it  was,  but  I  did  not  worry,  for  the  time  for  any  decision 
was  yet  far  distant.  Meanwhile,  life  was  pleasant,  both  physically  and 
intellectually,  fresh  horizons  were  ever  coming  into  sight,  there  was  so 
much  to  be  done,  so  much  to  be  seen,  so  many  fresh  avenues  to  explore. 
And  we  would  sit  by  the  fireside  in  the  long  winter  evenings  and  talk 
and  discuss  unhurriedly  deep  into  the  night  till  the  dying  fire  drove 
us  shivering  to  our  beds.  And  sometimes,  during  our  discussions,  our 
voices  would  lose  their  even  tenor  and  would  grow  loud  and  excited 
in  heated  argument.  But  it  was  all  make-believe.  We  played  with  the 
problems  of  human  life  in  a  mock-serious  way,  for  they  had  not  become 
real  problems  for  us  yet,  and  we  had  not  been  caught  in  the  coils  of 
the  world's  affairs.  It  was  the  prewar  world  of  the  early  twentieth 
century.  Soon  this  world  was  to  die,  yielding  place  to  another,  full  of 
death  and  destruction  and  anguish  and  heart-sickness  for  the  world's 
youth.  But  the  veil  of  the  future  hid  this,  and  we  saw  around  us  an 
assured  and  advancing  order  of  things,  and  this  was  pleasant  for  those 
who  could  afford  it. 

I  write  of  Cyrenaicism  and  the  like  and  of  various  ideas  that  influ 
enced  me  then.  But  it  would  be  wrong  to  imagine  that  I  thought 
clearly  on  these  subjects  then  or  even  that  I  thought  it  necessary  to 
try  to  be  clear  and  definite  about  them.  They  were  just  vague  fancies 
that  floated  in  my  mind  and  in  this  process  left  their  impress  in  a 
greater  or  less  degree.  I  did  not  worry  myself  at  all  about  these  specula 
tions.  Work  and  games  and  amusements  filled  my  life,  and  the  only 
thing  that  disturbed  me  sometimes  was  the  political  struggle  in  India. 
Among  the  books  that  influenced  me  politically  at  Cambridge  was 
Meredith  Townsend's  Asia  and  Europe. 

From  1907  onward  for  several  years  India  was  seething  with  unrest 
and  trouble.  For  the  first  time  since  the  Revolt  of  1857,  India  was 
showing  fight  and  not  submitting  tamely  to  foreign  rule.  News  of 
Tilak's  activities  and  his  conviction,  of  Aravindo  Ghose  and  the  way 
the  masses  of  Bengal  were  taking  the  Swadeshi  and  boycott  pledge 

34 


Jawaharlal  Nehru's  grandfather,  Pandit  Ganga  Dhar  Nehru 
(from  an  old  fainting) 


Jawaharlal  Nehru's  father,  Pandit  Motilal  Nehru 


stirred  all  of  us  Indians  in  England.  Almost  without  an  exception  we 
were  Tilakites  or  Extremists,  as  the  new  party  was  called  in  India. 

The  Indians  in  Cambridge  had  a  society  called  the  "Majlis."  We 
discussed  political  problems  there  often  but  In  somewhat  unreal  debates. 
More  effort  was  spent  in  copying  parliamentary  and  the  University 
Union  style  and  mannerisms  than  in  grappling  with  the  subject.  Fre 
quently  I  went  to  the  Majlis,  but  during  my  three  years  I  hardly  spoke 
there.  I  could  not  get  over  my  shyness  and  diffidence.  This  same 
difficulty  pursued  me  in  my  college  debating  society,  "The  Magpie 
and  Stump,"  where  there  was  a  rule  that  a  member  not  speaking  for 
a  whole  term  had  to  pay  a  fine.  Often  I  paid  the  fine. 

I  remember  Edwin  Montagu,  who  later  became  Secretary  of  State 
for  India,  often  visiting  "The  Magpie  and  Stump."  He  was  an  old 
Trinity  man  and  was  then  Member  of  Parliament  for  Cambridge.  It 
was  from  him  that  I  first  heard  the  modern  definition  of  faith:  to 
believe  in  something  which  your  reason  tells  you  cannot  be  true,  for, 
if  your  reason  approved  of  it,  there  could  be  no  question  of  blind  faith. 
I  was  influenced  by  my  scientific  studies  in  the  university  and  had 
some  of  the  assurance  which  science  then  possessed.  For  the  science 
of  the  nineteenth  and  the  early  twentieth  centuries,  unlike  that  of 
today,  was  very  sure  of  itself  and  the  world. 

In  the  Majlis  and  in  private  talks  Indian  students  often  used  the 
most  extreme  language  when  discussing  Indian  politics.  They  even 
talked  in  terms  of  admiration  of  the  acts  of  violence  that  were  then 
beginning  in  Bengal.  Later  I  was  to  find  that  these  very  persons  were 
to  become  members  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service,  High  Court  judges, 
very  staid  and  sober  lawyers,  and  the  like.  Few  of  these  parlor  fire 
brands  took  any  effective  part  in  Indian  political  movements  subse 
quently. 

In  London  there  was  the  student  center  opened  by  the  India  Office. 
This  was  universally  regarded  by  Indians,  with  a  great  deal  of  justifi 
cation,  as  a  device  to  spy  on  Indian  students.  Many  Indians,  however, 
had  to  put  up  with  it,  whether  they  wanted  to  or  not,  as  it  became 
almost  impossible  to  enter  a  university  without  its  recommendation. 

The  political  situation  in  India3  had  drawn  my  father  into  more 

3  India  is  divided  into  two  great  parts:  British  India,  where  the  British  Government, 
through  its  viceroy,  or  governor  general,  exercises  virtually  supreme  authority;  and  the 
Indian  States  and  Agencies,  which  are  governed  by  Indian  rulers  owing  a  limited  re 
sponsibility  to  the  viceroy.  British  India  consists  of  a  number  of  provinces:  Ajmer-Mer- 
wara,  Andaman  and  Nicobar  Islands,  Assam,  Baluchistan,  Bengal,  Behar,  Bombay, 
Central  Provinces  and  Bcrar,  Coorg,  Delhi,  Madras,  Laccadive  Islands,  Northwest  Fron 
tier  Province,  Orissa,  Punjab,  Sind,  and  United  Provinces  of  Agra  and  Oudh.  The  largest 

35 


active  politics,  and  I  was  pleased  at  this  although  I  did  not  agree  with 
his  politics.  He  had,  naturally  enough,  joined  the  Moderates,  whom 
he  knew  and  many  of  whom  were  his  colleagues  in  his  profession.  He 
presided  over  a  provincial  conference  in  his  province  and  took  up  a 
strong  line  against  the  Extremists  of  Bengal  and  Maharashtra.  He 
also  became  president  of  the  United  Provinces  Provincial  Congress 
Committee.  He  was  present  at  Surat  in  1907  when  the  Congress  broke 
up  in  disorder  and  later  emerged. as  a  purely  moderate  group. 

Soon  after  Surat,  H.  W.  Nevinson  stopped  with  him  at  Allahabad  as 
his  guest  for  a  while  and,  in  his  book  on  India,  he  referred  to  father 
as  being  "moderate  in  everything  except  his  generosity."  This  was  a 
very  wrong  estimate,  for  father  was  never  moderate  in  anything  except 
his  politics,  and  step  by  step  his  nature  drove  him  from  even  that 
remnant  of  moderation.  A  man  of  strong  feelings,  strong  passions, 
tremendous  pride,  and  great  strength  of  will,  he  was  very  far  from 
the  moderate  type.  And  yet  in  1907  and  1908  and  for  some  years  after 
ward,  he  was  undoubtedly  a  moderate  of  Moderates,  and  he  was  bitter 
against  the  Extremists,  though  I  believe  he  admired  Tilak. 

Why  was  this  so?  It  was  natural  for  him  with  his  grounding  in  law 
and  constitutionalism  to  take  a  lawyer's  and  a  constitutional  view  of 
politics.  His  clear  thinking  led  him  to  see  that  hard  and  extreme  words 
lead  nowhere  unless  they  are  followed  by  action  appropriate  to  the 
language.  He  saw  no  effective  action  in  prospect.  The  Swadeshi  and 
boycott  movements  did  not  seem  to  him  to  carry  matters  far.  And 
then  the  background  of  these  movements  was  a  religious  nationalism 
which  was  alien  to  his  nature.  He  did  not  look  back  to  a  revival  in 
India  of  ancient  times.  He  had  no  sympathy  or  understanding  of  them 
and  utterly  disliked  many  old  social  customs,  caste  and  the  like,  which 
he  considered  reactionary.  He  looked  to  the  West  and  felt  greatly 
attracted  by  Western  progress,  and  thought  that  this  could  come 
through  an  association  with  England. 

Socially,  the  Indian  national  revival  in  1907  was  definitely  reactionary. 
Inevitably,  a  new  nationalism  in  India,  as  elsewhere  in  the  East,  was 
a  religious  nationalism.  The  Moderates  thus  represented  a  more  ad 
vanced  social  outlook,  but  they  were  a  mere  handful  on  the  top  out 
of  toudl  with  the  Basses.  They  did  not  think  much  in  terms  of  eco- 

36 


nomics,  except  in  terms  of  the  new  upper  middle  class  which  they 
partly  represented  and  which  wanted  room  for  expansion.  They  advo 
cated  also  petty  social  reforms  to  weaken  caste  and  do  away  with  old 
social  customs  which  hindered  growth. 

Having  cast  his  lot  with  the  Moderates,  father  took  an  aggressive  line* 
Most  of  the  Extremists,  apart  from  a  few  leaders  in  Bengal  and  Poona, 
were  young  men,  and  it  irritated  him  to  find  that  these  youngsters 
dared  to  go  their  own  way.  Impatient  and  intolerant  of  opposition, 
and  not  suffering  people  whom  he  considered  fools,  he  gladly  pitched 
into  them  and  hit  out  whenever  he  could.  I  remember,  I  think  it  was 
after  I  left  Cambridge,  reading  an  article  of  his  which  annoyed  me 
greatly.  I  wrote  him  rather  an  impertinent  letter  in  which  I  suggested 
that  no  doubt  the  British  Government  was  greatly  pleased  with  his 
political  activities.  This  was  just  the  kind  of  suggestion  which  would 
make  him  wild,  and  he  was  very  angry.  He  almost  thought  of  asking 
me  to  return  from  England  immediately. 

During  my  stay  at  Cambridge  the  question  had  arisen  as  to  what 
career  I  should  take  up.  For  a  little  while  the  Indian  Civil  Service 
was  contemplated;  there  was  a  glamour  about  it  still  in  those  days. 
But  this  idea  was  dropped  as  neither  my  father  nor  I  was  keen  on  it. 
The  principal  reason,  I  think,  was  that  I  was  still  under  age  for  it 
and  if  I  was  to  appear  for  it  I  would  have  to  stay  three  to  four  years 
more  after  taking  my  degree.  I  was  twenty  when  I  took  my  degree 
at  Cambridge,  and  the  age  limit  for  the  Indian  Civil  Service  in  those 
days  was  twenty-two  to  twenty-four.  A  successful  candidate  had  to 
spend  an  extra  year  in  England.  My  people  were  a  little  tired  of  my 
long  stay  in  England  and  wanted  me  back  soon.  Another  reason  which 
weighed  with  father  was  that  in  case  I  was  appointed  to  the  Indian 
Civil  Service  I  would  be  posted  in  various  distant  places  far  from  home. 
Both  father  and  mother  wanted  me  near  them  after  my  long  absence. 
So  the  die  was  cast  in  favor  of  the  paternal  profession,  the  Bar,  and  I 
joined  the  Inner  Temple. 

It  is  curious  that,  in  spite  of  my  growing  extremism  in  politics,  I  did 
not  then  view  with  any  strong  disfavor  the  idea  of  joining  the  Indian 
Civil  Service  and  thus  becoming  a  cog  in  the  British  Government's 
administrative  machine  in  India.  Such  an  idea  in  later  years  would 
have  been  repellent  to  me. 

I  left  Cambridge  after  taking  my  degree  in  1910.  I  was  only  moder 
ately  successful  in  my  science  tripos  examination,  obtaining  second 
class  honors.  For  the  next  two  years  I  hovered  about  London.  My  law 

37 


studies  did  not  take  up  much  time,  and  1  got  through  the  Bar  examina 
tions,  one  after  the  other,  with  neither  glory  nor  ignominy.  For  the 
rest  I  simply  drifted,  doing  some  general  reading,  vaguely  attracted 
to  the  Fabians  and  socialistic  ideas,  and  interested  in  the  political 
movements  of  the  day.  Ireland  and  the  woman  suffrage  movement 
interested  me  especially.  I  remember  also  how,  during  a  visit  to  Ireland 
in  the  summer  of  1910,  the  early  beginnings  of  Sinn  Fein  had  attracted 
me. 

I  came  across  some  old  Harrow  friends  and  developed  expensive 
habits  in  their  company.  Often  I  exceeded  the  handsome  allowance 
that  father  made  me,  and  he  was  greatly  worried  on  my  account,  fear 
ing  that  I  was  rapidly  going  to  the  devil.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  was 
not  doing  anything  so  notable.  I  was  merely  trying  to  ape  to  some  extent 
the  prosperous  but  somewhat  empty-headed  Englishman  who  is  called 
a  "man  about  town."  This  soft  and  pointless  existence,  needless  to  say, 
did  not  improve  me  in  any  way.  My  early  enthusiasms  began  to  tone 
down,  and  the  only  thing  that  seemed  to  go  up  was  my  conceit. 

During  my  vacations  I  had  sometimes  traveled  on  the  Continent. 
In  the  summer  of  1909  my  father  and  I  happened  to  be  in  Berlin  when 
Count  Zeppelin  arrived  flying  in  his  new  airship  from  Friedrichshafen 
on  Lake  Constance.  I  believe  that  was  his  first  long  flight,  and  the 
occasion  was  celebrated  by  a  huge  demonstration  and  a  formal  welcome 
by  the  Kaiser.  A  vast  multitude,  estimated  at  between  one  and  two 
millions,  gathered  in  the  Tempelhof  Field  in  Berlin,  and  the  Zeppelin 
arrived  on  time  and  circled  gracefully  above  us.  The  Hotel  Adlon 
presented  all  its  residents  that  day  with  a  fine  picture  of  Count 
Zeppelin,  and  I  have  still  got  that  picture. 

About  two  months  later  we  saw  in  Paris  the  first  airplane  to  fly 
all  over  the  city  and  to  circle  round  the  Eiffel  Tower.  The  aviator's 
name  was,  I  think,  Comte  de  Lambert.  Eighteen  years  later  I  was  again 
in  Paris  when  Lindbergh  came  like  a  shining  arrow  from  across  the 
Atlantic. 

I  had  a  narrow  escape  once  in  Norway,  where  I  had  gone  on  a 
pleasure  cruise  soon  after  taking  my  degree  at  Cambridge  in  1910. 
We  were  tramping  across  the  mountainous  country.  Hot  and  weary, 
we  reached  our  destination,  a  little  hotel,  and  demanded  baths.  Such 
a  thing  had  not  been  heard  of  there,  and  there  was  no  provision  for 
it  in  the  building.  We  were  told,  however,  that  we  could  wash  ourselves 
in  a  neighboring  stream.  So,  armed  with  table  napkins  or  perhaps 
small  face  towels,  which  the  hotel  generously  gave,  two  of  us,  a  young 

38 


Englishman  and  I,  went  to  this  roaring  torrent  which  was  coming 
from  a  glacier  near  by.  I  entered  the  water;  it  was  not  deep,  but  it 
was  freezing,  and  the  bottom  was  terribly  slippery.  I  slipped  and  fell, 
and  the  ice-cold  water  numbed  me  and  made  me  lose  all  sensation 
or  power  of  controlling  my  limbs.  I  could  not  regain  my  foothold 
and  was  swept  rapidly  along  by  the  torrent.  My  companion,  the  Eng 
lishman,  however,  managed  to  get  out,  and  he  ran  along  the  side  and 
ultimately,  succeeding  in  catching  my  leg,  dragged  me  out.  Later  we 
realized  the  danger  we  were  in,  for  about  two  or  three  hundred  yards 
ahead  of  us  this  mountain  torrent  tumbled  over  an  enormous  precipice, 
forming  a  waterfall  which  was  one  of  the  sights  of  the  place. 

In  the  summer  of  1912  I  was  called  to  the  Bar,  and  in  the  autumn 
of  that  year  I  returned  to  India  finally  after  a  stay  of  over  seven  years 
in  England.  Twice,  in  between,  I  had  gone  home  during  my  holidays. 
But  now  I  returned  for  good,  and  I  am  afraid,  as  I  landed  at  Bombay, 
I  was  a  bit  of  a  prig  with  little  to  commend  me. 


VII 

BACK  HOME  AND  WARTIME  POLITICS  IN  INDIA 

TOWARD  THE  END  of  1912  India  was,  politically,  very  dull.  Tilak  was  in 
jail,  the  Extremists  had  been  sat  upon  and  were  lying  low  without  any 
effective  leadership,  Bengal  was  quiet  after  the  unsettling  of  the  parti 
tion  of  the  province,  and  the  Moderates  had  been  effectively  "rallied" 
to  the  Minto-Morley  scheme  of  councils.1  There  was  some  interest  in 
Indians  overseas,  especially  in  the  condition  of  Indians  in  South  Africa. 
The  Congress  was  a  moderate  group,  meeting  annually,  passing  some 
feeble  resolutions,  and  attracting  little  attention. 

I  attended  the  Bankipore  Congress  as  a  delegate  during  Christmas, 
1912.  It  was  very  much  an  English-knowing  upper-class  affair  where 
morning  coats  and  well-pressed  trousers  were  greatly  in  evidence. 
Essentially  it  was  a  social  gathering  with  no  political  excitement  or 
tension.  Gokhale,  fresh  from  South  Africa,  attended  it  and  was  the 
outstanding  person  of  the  session.  High-strung,  full  of  earnestness  and 
a  nervous  energy,  he  seemed  to  be  one  of  the  few  persons  present  who 

1 A  "reform"  put  into  effect  in  1907-1909,  increasing  Indian  representation  in  various 
advisory  organs  of  government. — Ed. 

39 


took  politics  and  public  affairs  seriously  and  felt  deeply  about  them. 
I  was  impressed  by  him. 

I  took  to  the  law  and  joined  the  High  Court.  The  work  interested 
me  to  a  certain  extent.  The  early  months  after  my  return  from  Europe 
were  pleasant.  I  was  glad  to  be  back  home  and  to  pick  up  old  threads. 
But  gradually  the  life  I  led,  in  common  with  most  others  of  my  kind, 
began  to  lose  all  its  freshness,  and  I  felt  that  I  was  being  engulfed  in  a 
dull  routine  of  a  pointless  and  futile  existence.  I  suppose  my  mongrel, 
or  at  least  mixed,  education  was  responsible  for  this  feeling  of  dissatis 
faction  with  my  surroundings.  The  habits  and  the  ideas  that  had 
grown  in  me  during  my  seven  years  in  England  did  not  fit  in  with 
things  as  I  found  them.  Fortunately  my  home  atmosphere  was  fairly 
congenial,  and  that  was  some  help,  but  it  was  not  enough.  For  the  rest 
there  was  the  Bar  Library  and  the  club,  and  the  same  people  were  to  be 
found  in  both,  discussing  the  same  old  topics,  usually  connected  with 
the  legal  profession,  over  and  over  again.  Decidedly  the  atmosphere 
was  not  intellectually  stimulating,  and  a  sense  of  the  utter  insipidity  of 
life  grew  upon  me.  There  were  not  ever  worth-while  amusements  or 
diversions. 

The  official  and  Service  atmosphere  invaded  and  set  the  tone  for 
almost  all  Indian  middle-class  life,  especially  the  English-knowing 
intelligentsia,  except  to  some  extent  in  cities  like  Calcutta  and  Bombay. 
Professional  men,  lawyers,  doctors,  and  others  succumbed  to  it,  and 
even  the  academic  halls  of  the  semiofficial  universities  were  full  of  it. 
All  these  people  lived  in  a  world  apart,  cut  off  from  the  masses  and 
even  the  lower  middle  class.  Politics  was  confined  to  this  upper 
stratum.  The  nationalist  movement  in  Bengal  from  1906  onward  had 
for  the  first  time  shaken  this  up  and  infused  a  new  life  in  the  Bengal 
lower  middle  class  and  to  a  small  extent  even  the  masses.  This  process 
was  to  grow  rapidly  in  later  years  under  Gandhiji's 2  leadership,  but  a 

2 1  have  referred  to  Mr.  Gandhi  or  Mahatma  Gandhi  as  "Gandhiji"  throughout  these 
pages  as  he  himself  prefers  this  to  the  addition  of  "Mahatma"  to  his  name.  But  I  have 
seen  some  extraordinary  explanations  of  this  "ji"  in  books  and  articles  by  English 
writers.  Some  have  imagined  that  it  is  a  term  of  endearment — Gandhiji  meaning 
"dear  little  Gandhi"!  This  is  perfectly  absurd  and  shows  colossal  ignorance  of  Indian 
life.  "Ji"  is  one  of  the  commonest  additions  to  a  name  in  India,  being  applied  indis- 
criminatingly  to  all  kinds  of  people  and  to  men,  women,  boys,  girls,  and  children.  It 
conveys  an  idea  of  respect,  something  equivalent  to  Mr.,  Mrs.,  or  Miss.  Hindustani  is 
rich  in  courtly  phrases  and  prefixes  and  suffixes  to  names  and  honorific  titles.  "Ji"  is 
the  simplest  of  these  and  the  least  formal  of  them,  though  perfectly  correct.  I  learn 
from  my  brother-in-law,  Ranjit  S.  Pandit,  that  this  "ji"  has  a  long  and  honorable 
ancestry.  It  is  derived  from  the  Sanskrit  Arya,  meaning  a  gentleman  or  noble-born  (not 
the  Nazi  meaning  of  Aryan!).  This  arya  became  in  Prakit  ajja,  and  this  led  to  the 
simple  "ji."* 

4o 


nationalist  struggle  though  life-giving  is  a  narrow  creed  and  absorbs 
too  much  energy  and  attention  to  allow  of  other  activities. 

I  felt,  therefore,  dissatisfied  with  life  in  those  early  years  after  my 
return  from  England.  My  profession  did  not  fill  me  with  a  whole 
hearted  enthusiasm.  Politics,  which  to  me  meant  aggressive  nationalist 
activity  against  foreign  rule,  offered  no  scope  for  this.  I  joined  the 
Congress  and  took  part  in  its  occasional  meetings.  When  a  special 
occasion  arose,  like  the  agitation  against  the  Fiji  indenture  system  for 
Indian  workers,  or  the  South  African  Indian  question,  I  threw  myself 
into  it  with  energy  and  worked  hard.  But  these  were  only  temporary 
occupations. 

I  indulged  in  some  diversions  like  shikar,  but  I  had  no  special  apti 
tude  or  inclination  for  it.  I  liked  the  outings  and  the  jungle  and  cared 
little  for  the  killing.  Indeed  my  reputation  was  a  singularly  bloodless 
one,  although  I  once  succeeded,  more  or  less  by  a  fluke,  in  killing  a 
bear  in  Kashmir.  An  incident  with  a  little  antelope  damped  even  the 
little  ardor  that  I  possessed  for  shikar.  This  harmless  little  animal  fell 
down  at  my  feet,  wounded  to  death,  and  looked  up  at  me  with  its 
great  big  eyes  full  of  tears.  Those  eyes  have  often  haunted  me  since. 

I  was  attracted  in  those  early  years  to  Mr.  Gokhale's  Servants  of 
India  Society.  I  never  thought  of  joining  it,  partly  because  its  politics 
were  too  moderate  for  me,  and  partly  because  I  had  no  intention  then 
of  giving  up  my  profession.  But  I  had  a  great  admiration  for  the 
members  of  the  society,  who  had  devoted  themselves  for  a  bare  pit 
tance  to  the  country's  service.  Here  at  least,  I  thought,  was  straight  and 
single-minded  and  continuous  work  even  though  this  might  not  be  on 
wholly  right  lines. 

The  World  War  absorbed  our  attention.  It  was  far  off  and  did  not  at 
first  affect  our  lives  much,  and  India  never  felt  the  full  horror  of  it. 
Politics  petered  out  and  sank  into  insignificance.  The  Defense  of 
India  Act  (the  equivalent  of  the  British  Defense  of  the  Realm  Act) 
held  the  country  in  its  grip.  From  the  second  year  onward  news  of 
conspiracies  and  shootings  came  to  us,  and  of  press-gang  methods  to 
enroll  recruits  in  the  Punjab. 

There  was  little  sympathy  with  the  British  in  spite  of  loud  profes 
sions  of  loyalty.  Moderate  and  Extremists  alike  learned  with  satisfac 
tion  of  German  victories.  There  was  no  love  for  Germany,  of  course, 
only  the  desire  to  see  our  own  rulers  humbled.  It  was  the  weak  and 
helpless  man's  idea  of  vicarious  revenge.  I  suppose  most  of  us  viewed 


the  struggle  with  mixed  feelings.  Of  all  the  nations  involved  my 
sympathies  were  probably  most  with  France.  The  ceaseless  and 
unabashed  propaganda  on  behalf  of  the  Allies  had  some  effect, 
although  we  tried  to  discount  it  greatly. 

Gradually  political  life  grew  again.  Lokamanya  Tilak  came  out  of 
prison,  and  home  rule  leagues  were  started  by  him  and  Mrs.  Besant. 
I  joined  both,  but  I  worked  especially  for  Mrs.  Besant's  league.  Mrs. 
Besant  began  to  play  an  ever-increasing  part  in  Indian  politics.  The 
annual  sessions  of  the  Congress  became  a  little  more  exciting  and  the 
Moslem  League  began  to  march  with  the  Congress.  The  atmosphere 
became  electric,  and  most  of  us  young  men  felt  exhilarated  and 
expected  big  things  in  the  near  future.  Mrs.  Besant's  internment  added 
greatly  to  the  excitement  of  the  intelligentsia  and  vitalized  the  home 
rule  movement  all  over  the  country.  It  stirred  even  the  older  genera 
tion,  including  many  of  the  Moderate  leaders.  The  home  rule  leagues 
were  attracting  not  only  all  the  old  Extremists  who  had  been  kept  out 
of  the  Congress  since  1907  but  large  numbers  of  newcomers  from  the 
middle  classes.  They  did  not  touch  the  masses. 

Mrs.  Besant's  internment  also  resulted  in  my  father  and  other  Mod 
erate  leaders  joining  the  Home  Rule  League.  Some  months  later  most 
of  these  Moderate  members  resigned  from  the  league.  My  father  re 
mained  in  it  and  became  the  president  of  the  Allahabad  branch. 

Gradually  my  father  had  been  drifting  away  from  the  orthodox 
Moderate  position.  His  nature  rebelled  against  too  much  submission 
and  appeal  to  an  authority  which  ignored  us  and  treated  us  disdain 
fully.  But  the  old  Extremist  leaders  did  not  attract  him;  their  language 
and  methods  jarred  upon  him.  The  episode  of  Mrs.  Besant's  intern 
ment  and  subsequent  events  influenced  him  considerably,  but  still  he 
hesitated  before  definitely  committing  himself  to  a  forward  line.  Often 
he  used  to  say  in  those  days  that  moderate  tactics  were  no  good,  but 
nothing  effective  could  be  done  till  some  solution  for  the  Hindu- 
Moslem  question  was  found.  If  this  was  found,  then  he  promised  to  go 
ahead  with  the  youngest  of  us.  The  adoption  by  the  Congress  at 
Lucknow  in  1916  of  the  Joint  Congress-League  Scheme,  which  had 
been  drawn  up  at  a  meeting  of  the  All-India  Congress  Committee  in 
our  house,  pleased  him  greatly  as  it  opened  the  way  to  a  joint  effort, 
and  he  was  prepared  to  go  ahead  then  even  at  the  cost  of  breaking  with 
his  old  colleagues  of  the  Moderate  group. 

My  own  political  and  public  activities  in  the  early  war  years  were 
modest,  and  I  kept  away  from  addressing  public  gatherings.  I  was  still 

42 


Jawaharlal  Nehru's  mother,  Swarup  Rani  Nehru 


The  older  of  Jawaharlal  Nehru's  two  sisters,  Mrs. 

Vijaya  Lakshmi  Pandit.  She  was  formerly  a  minister 

in    the    United    Provinces    government,    the    only 

woman  ever  to  hold  such  a  position 


diffident  and  terrified  of  public  speaking.  Partly  also  I  felt  that  public 
speeches  should  not  be  in  English,  and  I  doubted  my  capacity  to  speak 
at  any  length  in  Hindustani.  I  remember  a  little  incident  when  I  was 
induced  to  deliver  my  first  public  speech  in  Allahabad.  Probably  it 
was  in  1915,  but  I  am  not  clear  about  dates  and  am  rather  mixed  up 
about  the  order  of  events.  The  occasion  was  a  protest  meeting  against 
a  new  act  muzzling  the  press.  I  spoke  briefly  and  in  English.  As  soon 
as  the  meeting  was  over.  Dr.  Tej  Bahadur  Sapru,  to  my  great  embar 
rassment,  embraced  and  kissed  me  in  public  on  the  dais.  This  was  not 
because  of  what  I  had  said  or  how  I  had  said  it.  His  effusive  joy  was 
caused  by  the  mere  fact  that  I  had  spoken  in  public  and  thus  a  new 
recruit  had  been  obtained  for  public  work,  for  this  work  consisted  in 
those  days  practically  of  speaking  only. 

At  home,  in  those  early  years,  political  questions  were  not  peaceful 
subjects  for  discussion,  and  references  to  them,  which  were  frequent, 
immediately  produced  a  tense  atmosphere.  Father  had  been  closely 
watching  my  growing  drift  toward  Extremism,  my  continual  criticism 
of  the  politics  of  talk,  and  my  insistent  demand  for  action.  What  action 
it  should  be  was  not  clear,  and  sometimes  father  imagined  that  I  was 
heading  straight  for  the  violent  courses  adopted  by  some  of  the  young 
men  of  Bengal.  This  worried  him  very  much.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I 
was  not  attracted  that  way,  but  the  idea  that  we  must  not  tamely  sub 
mit  to  existing  conditions  and  that  something  must  be  done  began  to 
obsess  me  more  and  more.  Successful  action,  from  the  national  point 
of  view,  did  not  seem  to  be  at  all  easy,  but  I  felt  that  both  individual 
and  national  honor  demanded  a  more  aggressive  and  fighting  attitude 
to  foreign  rule.  Father  himself  was  dissatisfied  with  the  Moderate 
philosophy,  and  a  mental  conflict  was  going  on  inside  him.  He  was  too 
obstinate  to  change  from  one  position  to  another  until  he  was  abso 
lutely  convinced  that  there  was  no  other  way.  Each  step  forward  meant 
for  him  a  hard  and  bitter  tussle  in  his  mind,  and,  when  the  step  was 
taken  after  that  struggle  with  part  of  himself,  there  was  no  going  back. 
He  had  not  taken  it  in  a  fit  of  enthusiasm  but  as  a  result  of  intellectual 
conviction,  and  when  he  had  done  so,  all  his  pride  prevented  him  from 
looking  back. 

The  outward  change  in  his  politics  came  about  the  time  of  Mrs. 
Besant's  internment,  and  from  that  time  onward  step  by  step  he  went 
ahead,  leaving  his  old  Moderate  colleagues  far  behind,  till  the  tragic 
happenings  in  the  Punjab  in  1919  finally  led  him  to  cut  adrift  from  his 

43 


old  life  and  his  profession  and  throw  in  his  lot  with  the  new  move 
ment  started  by  Gandhiji. 

But  that  was  still  to  be,  and  from  1915  to  1917  he  was  still  unsure  of 
what  to  do,  and  the  doubts  in  him,  added  to  his  worries  about  me,  did 
not  make  him  a  peaceful  talker  on  the  public  issues  of  the  day.  Often 
enough  our  talks  ended  abruptly  by  his  losing  his  temper. 

My  first  meeting  with  Gandhiji  was  about  the  time  of  the  Lucknow 
Congress  during  Christmas,  1916.  All  of  us  admired  him  for  his  heroic 
fight  in  South  Africa,  but  he  seemed  very  distant  and  different  and 
unpolitical  to  many  of  us  young  men.  He  refused  to  take  part  in  Con 
gress  or  national  politics  then  and  confined  himself  to  the  South 
African  Indian  question.  Soon  afterward  his  adventures  and  victory  in 
Champaran,  on  behalf  of  the  tenants  of  the  planters,  filled  us  with 
enthusiasm.  We  saw  that  he  was  prepared  to  apply  his  methods  in 
India  also,  and  they  promised  success. 

I  remember  being  moved  also,  in  those  days  after  the  Lucknow 
Congress,  by  a  number  of  eloquent  speeches  delivered  by  Sarojini 
Naidu  in  Allahabad.  It  was  all  nationalism  and  patriotism,  and  I  was 
a  pure  nationalist,  my  vague  socialist  ideas  of  college  days  having  sunk 
into  the  background.  Roger  Casement's  wonderful  speech  at  his  trial 
in  1916  seemed  to  point  out  exacdy  how  a  member  of  a  subject  nation 
should  feel.  The  Easter  Week  rising  in  Ireland  by  its  very  failure 
attracted,  for  was  that  not  true  courage  which  mocked  at  almost  cer 
tain  failure  and  proclaimed  to  the  world  that  no  physical  might  could 
crush  the  invincible  spirit  of  a  nation? 

Such  were  my  thoughts  then,  and  yet  fresh  reading  was  again  stir 
ring  the  embers  of  socialistic  ideas  in  my  head.  They  were  vague  ideas, 
more  humanitarian  and  Utopian  than  scientific.  A  favorite  writer  of 
mine  during  the  war  years  and  after  was  Bertrand  Russell. 

These  thoughts  and  desires  produced  a  growing  conflict  within  me 
and  a  dissatisfaction  with  my  profession  of  the  law.  I  carried  on  with 
it  because  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done,  but  I  felt  more  and  more 
that  it  was  not  possible  to  reconcile  public  work,  especially  of  the 
aggressive  type  which  appealed  to  me,  with  the  lawyer's  job.  It  was 
not  a  question  of  principle  but  of  time  and  energy.  Sir  Rash  Behary 
Ghosh,  the  eminent  Calcutta  lawyer,  who  for  some  unknown  reason 
took  a  fancy  to  me,  gave  me  a  lot  of  good  advice  as  to  how  to  get  on  in 
the  profession.  He  especially  advised  me  to  write  a  book  on  a  legal 
subject  of  my  choice,  as  he  said  that  this  was  the  best  way  for  a  junior 
to  train  himself.  He  offered  to  help  me  with  ideas  in  the  writing  of  it 

44 


and  to  revise  it.  But  all  his  well-meant  interest  in  my  legal  career  was 
in  vain,  and  few  things  could  be  more  distasteful  to  me  than  to  spend 
my  time  and  energy  in  writing  legal  books. 


VIII 

MY  WEDDING  AND  AN  ADVENTURE 
IN  THE  HIMALAYAS 

MY  MARRIAGE  TOOK  place  in  1916  in  the  city  of  Delhi.  It  was  on  the 
Vasanta  Panchami  day  which  heralds  the  coming  of  spring  in  India. 
That  summer  we  spent  some  months  in  Kashmir.  I  left  my  family  in 
the  valley  and,  together  with  a  cousin  of  mine,  wandered  for  several 
weeks  in  the  mountains  and  went  up  the  Ladakh  road. 

This  was  my  first  experience  of  the  narrow  and  lonely  valleys,  high 
up  in  the  world,  which  lead  to  the  Tibetan  plateau.  From  the  top  of 
the  Zoji-la  Pass  we  saw  the  rich  verdant  mountain  sides  below  us  on 
one  side  and  the  bare  bleak  rock  on  the  other.  We  went  up  and  up  the 
narrow  valley  bottom  flanked  on  each  side  by  mountains,  with  the 
snow-covered  tops  gleaming  on  one  side  and  little  glaciers  creeping 
down  to  meet  us.  The  wind  was  cold  and  bitter,  but  the  sun  was  warm 
in  the  daytime,  and  the  air  was  so  clear  that  often  we  were  misled 
about  the  distance  of  objects,  thinking  them  much  nearer  than  they 
actually  were.  The  loneliness  grew;  there  were  not  even  trees  or  vege 
tation  to  keep  us  company — only  the  bare  rock  and  the  snow  and  ice 
and,  sometimes,  very  welcome  flowers.  Yet  I  found  a  strange  satisfac 
tion  in  these  wild  and  desolate  haunts  of  nature;  I  was  full  of  energy 
and  a  feeling  of  exaltation. 

I  had  an  exciting  experience  during  this  visit.  At  one  place  on  our 
march  beyond  the  Zoji-la  Pass — I  think  it  was  called  Matayan — we 
were  told  that  the  cave  of  Amaranath  was  only  eight  miles  away.  It 
was  true  that  an  enormous  mountain  all  covered  with  ice  and  snow  lay 
in  between  and  had  to  be  crossed,  but  what  did  that  matter?  Eight 
miles  seemed  so  little.  In  our  enthusiasm  and  inexperience  we  decided 
to  make  the  attempt.  So  we  left  our  camp  (which  was  situated  at 
about  11,500  feet  altitude)  and  with  a  small  party  went  up  the  moun 
tain.  We  had  a  local  shepherd  for  a  guide. 

We  crossed  and  climbed  several  glaciers,  roping  ourselves  up,  and 

45 


our  troubles  increased,  and  breathing  became  a  little  difficult.  Some  of 
our  porters,  lightly  laden  as  they  were,  began  to  bring  up  blood.  It 
began  to  snow,  and  the  glaciers  became  terribly  slippery;  we  were 
fagged  out,  and  every  step  meant  a  special  effort.  But  still  we  persisted 
in  our  foolhardy  attempt.  We  had  left  our  camp  at  four  in  the  morning, 
and  after  twelve  hours'  almost  continuous  climbing  we  were  rewarded 
by  the  sight  of  a  huge  ice  field.  This  was  a  magnificent  sight,  sur 
rounded  as  it  was  by  snow  peaks,  like  a  diadem  or  an  amphitheater  of 
the  gods.  But  fresh  snow  and  mists  soon  hid  the  sight  from  us.  I  do 
not  know  what  our  altitude  was,  but  I  think  it  must  have  been  about 
15,000  to  16,000  feet,  as  we  were  considerably  higher  than  the  cave  of 
Amaranath.  We  had  now  to  cross  this  ice  field,  a  distance  probably  of 
half  a  mile,  and  then  go  down  on  the  other  side  to  the  cave.  We 
thought  that  as  the  climbing  was  over,  our  principal  difficulties  had 
also  been  surmounted,  and  so,  very  tired  but  in  good  humor,  we  began 
this  stage  of  the  journey.  It  was  a  tricky  business  as  there  were  many 
crevasses  and  the  fresh  snow  often  covered  a  dangerous  spot.  It  was  this 
fresh  snow  that  almost  proved  to  be  my  undoing,  for,  as  I  stepped 
upon  it,  it  gave  way,  and  down  I  went  into  a  huge  and  yawning  cre 
vasse.  It  was  a  tremendous  fissure,  and  anything  that  went  right  down 
it  could  be  assured  of  safe  keeping  and  preservation  for  some  geological 
ages.  But  the  rope  held,  and  I  clung  to  the  side  of  the  crevasse  and 
was  pulled  out.  We  were  shaken  up  by  this,  but  still  we  persisted 
in  going  on.  The  crevasses,  however,  increased  in  number  and  width, 
and  we  had  no  equipment  or  means  of  crossing  some  of  them. 
And  so  at  last  we  turned  back,  weary  and  disappointed,  and  the  cave 
of  Amaranath  remained  unvisited. 

The  higher  valleys  and  mountains  of  Kashmir  fascinated  me  so 
much  that  I  resolved  to  come  back  again  soon.  I  made  many  a  plan 
and  worked  out  many  a  tour,  and  one,  the  very  thought  of  which 
filled  me  with  delight,  was  a  visit  to  Manasarovar,  the  wonder  lake  of 
Tibet,  and  snow-covered  Kailas  near  by.  That  was  eighteen  years  ago, 
and  I  am  still  as  far  as  ever  from  Kailas  and  Manasarovar.  I  have  not 
even  been  to  visit  Kashmir  again,  much  as  I  have  longed  to,  and  ever 
more  and  more  I  have  got  entangled  in  the  coils  of  politics  and  public 
affairs.  Instead  of  going  up  mountains  or  crossing  the  seas,  I  have  to 
satisfy  my  wanderlust  by  coming  to  prison.  But  still  I  plan,  for  that  is 
a  joy  that  no  one  can  deny  even  in  prison,  and  besides,  what  else  can 
one  do  in  prison?  And  I  dream  of  the  day  when  I  shall  wander  about 
the  Himalayas  and  cross  them  to  reach  that  lake  and  mountain  of  my 

46 


desire.  But  meanwhile  the  sands  of  life  run  on,  and  youth  passes  into 
middle  age,  and  that  will  give  place  to  something  worse,  and  some 
times  I  think  that  I  may  grow  too  old  to  reach  Kailas  and  Manasaro- 
var.  But  the  journey  is  always  worth  the  making  even  though  the  end 
may  not  be  in  sight. 


IX 

THE  COMING  OF  GANDHI 

THE  END  OF  the  World  War  found  India  in  a  state  of  suppressed 
excitement.  Industrialization  had  spread,  and  the  capitalist  class  had 
grown  in  wealth  and  power.  This  handful  at  the  top  had  prospered 
and  were  greedy  for  more  power  and  opportunity  to  invest  their  sav 
ings  and  add  to  their  wealth.  The  great  majority,  however,  were  not 
so  fortunate  and  looked  forward  to  a  lightening  of  the  burdens  that 
crushed  them.  Among  the  middle  classes  there  was  everywhere  an 
expectation  of  great  constitutional  changes  which  would  bring  a  large 
measure  of  self-rule  and  thus  better  their  lot  by  opening  out  many 
fresh  avenues  of  growth  to  them.  Political  agitation,  peaceful  and 
wholly  constitutional  as  it  was,  seemed  to  be  working  itself  to  a  head, 
and  people  talked  with  assurance  of  self-determination  and  self-govern 
ment.  Some  of  this  unrest  was  visible  also  among  the  masses,  especially 
the  peasantry.  In  the  rural  areas  of  the  Punjab  the  forcible  methods  of 
recruitment  were  still  bitterly  remembered,  and  the  fierce  suppression 
of  the  "Komagata  Maru"  people  and  others  by  conspiracy  trials  added 
to  the  widespread  resentment.  The  soldiers  back  from  active  service  on 
distant  fronts  were  no  longer  the  subservient  robots  that  they  used  to 
be.  They  had  grown  mentally,  and  there  was  much  discontent  among 
them. 

Among  the  Moslems  there  was  anger  over  the  treatment  of  Turkey 
and  the  JChilafat  question,  and  an  agitation  was  growing.  The  treaty 
with  Turkey  had  not  been  signed  yet,  but  the  whole  situation  was 
ominous.  So,  while  they  agitated,  they  waited. 

The  dominant  note  all  over  India  was  one  of  waiting  and  expecta 
tion,  full  of  hope  and  yet  tinged  with  fear  and  anxiety.  Then  came  the 
Rowlatt  Bills  with  their  drastic  provisions  for  arrest  and  trial  without 
any  of  the  checks  and  formalities  which  the  law  is  supposed  to  provide. 
A  wave  of  anger  greeted  them  all  over  India,  and  even  the  Moderates 

47 


joined  in  this  and  opposed  the  measures  with  all  their  might.  Indeed 
there  was  universal  opposition  on  the  part  of  Indians  of  all  shades  of 
opinion.  Still  the  Bills  were  pushed  through  by  the  officials  and  became 
law,  the  principal  concession  made  being  to  limit  them  to  three  years. 

Gandhiji  had  passed  through  a  serious  illness  early  in  1919.  Almost 
from  his  sick  bed  he  begged  the  Viceroy  not  to  give  his  consent  to  the 
Rowlatt  Bills.  That  appeal  was  ignored  as  others  had  been,  and  then, 
almost  against  his  will,  Gandhiji  took  the  leadership  in  his  first  all- 
India  agitation.  He  started  the  Satyagraha  Sabha,  the  members  of 
which  were  pledged  to  disobey  the  Rowlatt  Act,  if  it  was  applied  to 
them,  as  well  as  other  objectionable  laws  to  be  specified  from  time  to 
time.  In  other  words,  they  were  to  court  jail  openly  and  deliberately. 

When  I  first  read  about  this  proposal  in  the  newspapers,  my  reaction 
was  one  of  tremendous  relief.  Here  at  last  was  a  way  out  of  the  tangle, 
a  method  of  action  which  was  straight  and  open  and  possibly  effective. 
I  was  afire  with  enthusiasm  and  wanted  to  join  the  Satyagraha  Sabha 
immediately.  I  hardly  thought  of  the  consequences — law-breaking,  jail- 
going,  etc. — and  if  I  thought  of  them  I  did  not  care.  But  suddenly  my 
ardor  was  damped,  and  I  realized  that  all  was  not  plain  sailing.  My 
father  was  dead  against  this  new  idea.  He  was  not  in  the  habit  of 
being  swept  away  by  new  proposals;  he  thought  carefully  of  the  con 
sequences  before  he  took  any  fresh  step.  And  the  more  he  thought  of 
the  Satyagraha  Sabha  and  its  program,  the  less  he  liked  it.  What  good 
would  the  jail-going  of  a  number  of  individuals  do,  what  pressure 
could  it  bring  on  the  Government?  Apart  from  these  general  con 
siderations,  what  really  moved  him  was  the  personal  issue.  It  seemed 
to  him  preposterous  that  I  should  go  to  prison.  The  trek  to  prison  had 
not  then  begun,  and  the  idea  was  most  repulsive.  Father  was  intensely 
attached  to  his  children.  He  was  not  showy  in  his  affection,  but  behind 
his  restraint  there  was  a  great  love. 

For  many  days  there  was  this  mental  conflict,  and  because  both  of 
us  felt  that  big  issues  were  at  stake  involving  a  complete  upsetting  of 
our  lives,  we  tried  hard  to  be  as  considerate  to  each  other  as  possible.  I 
wanted  to  lessen  his  obvious  suffering  if  I  could,  but  I  had  no  doubt  in 
my  mind  that  I  had  to  go  the  way  of  Satyagraha.  Both  of  us  had  a  dis 
tressing  time,  and  night  after  night  I  wandered  about  alone,  tortured 
in  mind  and  trying  to  grope  rny  way  out.  Father— I  discovered  later 
—actually  tried  sleeping  on  the  floor  to  find  out  what  it  was  like,  as  he 
thought  that  this  would  be  my  lot  in  prison. 

Gandhiji  came  to  Allahabad  at  father's  request,  and  they  had  long 

48 


talks  at  which  I  was  not  present.  As  a  result  Gandhiji  advised  me  not 
to  precipitate  matters  or  to  do  anything  which  might  upset  father.  I 
was  not  happy  at  this,  but  other  events  took  place  in  India  which 
changed  the  whole  situation,  and  the  Satyagraha  Sabha  stopped  its 
activities. 

Satyagraha  Day — all-India  hartals  and  complete  suspension  of  busi 
ness — firing  by  the  police  and  military  at  Delhi  and  Amritsar,  and  the 
killing  of  many  people — mob  violence  in  Amritsar  and  Ahmedabad — 
the  massacre  of  Jallianwala  Bagh— the  long  horror  and  terrible  indig 
nity  of  martial  law  in  the  Punjab.  The  Punjab  was  isolated,  cut  off 
from  the  rest  of  India;  a  thick  veil  seemed  to  cover  it  and  hide  it  from 
outside  eyes.  There  was  hardly  any  news,  and  people  could  not  go 
there  or  come  out  from  there. 

Odd  individuals,  who  managed  to  escape  from  that  inferno,  were  so 
terror-struck  that  they  could  give  no  clear  account.  Helplessly  and 
impotently,  we  who  were  outside  waited  for  scraps  of  news,  and  bit 
terness  filled  our  hearts.  Some  of  us  wanted  to  go  openly  to  the  affected 
parts  of  the  Punjab  and  defy  the  martial  law  regulations.  But  we  were 
kept  back,  and  meanwhile  a  big  organization  for  relief  and  inquiry 
was  set  up  on  behalf  of  the  Congress. 

As  soon  as  martial  law  was  withdrawn  from  the  principal  areas  and 
outsiders  were  allowed  to  come  in,  prominent  Congressmen  and  others 
poured  into  the  Punjab  offering  their  services  for  relief  or  inquiry 
work.  Deshbandhu  Das  especially  took  the  Amritsar  area  under  his 
charge,  and  I  was  deputed  to  accompany  him  there  and  assist  him  in 
any  way  he  desired.  That  was  the  first  occasion  I  had  of  working  with 
him  and  under  him,  and  I  valued  that  experience  very  much  and  my 
admiration  for  him  grew.  Most  of  the  evidence  relating  to  Jallianwala 
Bagh  and  that  terrible  lane  where  human  beings  were  made  to  crawl 
on  their  bellies,  that  subsequently  appeared  in  the  Congress  Inquiry 
Report,  was  taken  down  in  our  presence.  We  paid  numerous  visits  to 
the  so-called  Bagh  itself  and  examined  every  bit  of  it  carefully. 

A  suggestion  has  been  made,  I  think  by  Mr.  Edward  Thompson, 
that  General  Dyer  was  under  the  impression  that  there  were  other 
exits  from  the  Bagh  and  it  was  because  of  this  that  he  continued  his 
firing  for  so  long.  Even  if  that  was  Dyer's  impression,  and  there  were 
in  fact  some  exits,  that  would  hardly  lessen  his  responsibility.  But  it 
seems  very  strange  that  he  should  have  such  an  impression.  Any  per 
son,  standing  on  the  raised  ground  where  he  stood,  could  have  a  good 
view  of  the  entire  space  and  could  see  how  shut  in  it  was  on  all  sides 

49 


by  houses  several  stories  high.  Only  on  one  side,  for  a  hundred  feet  or 
so,  there  was  no  house,  but  a  low  wall  about  five  feet  high.  With  a 
murderous  fire  mowing  them  down  and  unable  to  find  a  way  out, 
thousands  of  people  rushed  to  this  wall  and  tried  to  climb  over  it.  The 
fire  was  then  directed,  it  appears  (both  from  our  evidence  and  the 
innumerable  bullet  marks  on  the  wall  itself),  toward  this  wall  to  pre 
vent  people  from  escaping  over  it.  And  when  all  was  over,  some  of  the 
biggest  heaps  of  dead  and  wounded  lay  on  either  side  of  this  wall. 

Toward  the  end  of  that  year  (1919)  I  traveled  from  Amritsar  to 
Delhi  by  the  night  train.  The  compartment  I  entered  was  almost  full, 
and  all  the  berths,  except  one  upper  one,  were  occupied  by  sleeping 
passengers.  I  took  the  vacant  upper  berth.  In  the  morning  I  discovered 
that  all  my  fellow  passengers  were  military  officers.  They  conversed 
with  each  other  in  loud  voices  which  I  could  not  help  overhearing. 
One  of  them  was  holding  forth  in  an  aggressive  and  triumphant  tone, 
and  soon  I  discovered  that  he  was  Dyer,  the  hero  of  Jallianwala  Bagh, 
who  was  describing  his  Amritsar  experiences.  He  pointed  out  how  he 
had  the  whole  town  at  his  mercy  and  he  had  felt  like  reducing  the 
rebellious  city  to  a  heap  of  ashes,  but  he  took  pity  on  it  and  refrained. 
He  was  evidently  coming  back  from  Lahore  after  giving  his  evidence 
before  the  Hunter  Committee  of  Inquiry.  I  was  gready  shocked  to 
hear  his  conversation  and  to  observe  his  callous  manner.  He  descended 
at  Delhi  station  in  pyjamas  with  bright  pink  stripes,  and  a  dressing 
gown. 

During  the  Punjab  inquiry  I  saw  a  great  deal  of  Gandhiji.  Very 
often  his  proposals  seemed  novel  to  our  committee,  and  it  did  not 
approve  of  them.  But  almost  always  he  argued  his  way  to  their  accept 
ance,  and  subsequent  events  showed  the  wisdom  of  his  advice.  Faith  in 
his  political  insight  grew  in  me. 

The  Punjab  happenings  and  the  inquiry  into  them  had  a  profound 
effect  on  father.  His  whole  legal  and  constitutional  foundations  were 
shaken  by  them,  and  his  mind  was  gradually  prepared  for  that  change 
which  was  to  come  a  year  later.  He  had  already  moved  far  from  his  old 
moderate  position.  Dissatisfied  with  the  leading  Moderate  newspaper, 
the  Leader  of  Allahabad,  he  had  started  another  daily,  the  Independent, 
from  Allahabad  early  in  1919.  This  paper  met  with  great  success,  but 
from  the  very  beginning  it  was  handicapped  by  quite  an  amazing 
degree  of  incompetence  in  the  running  of  it.  Almost  everybody  con* 
nected  with  it— directors,  editors,  managerial  staff—had  their  share  of 
responsibility  for  this.  I  was  one  of  the  directors,  without  the  least 

50 


experience  of  the  job,  and  the  troubles  and  the  squabbles  of  the  paper 
became  quite  a  nightmare  to  me.  Both  my  father  and  I  were,  however, 
soon  dragged  away  to  the  Punjab,  and  during  our  long  absence  the 
paper  deteriorated  greatly  and  became  involved  in  financial  difficulties. 
It  never  recovered  from  them,  and,  although  it  had  bright  patches  in 
1920  and  1921,  it  began  to  go  to  pieces  as  soon  as  we  went  to  jail.  It 
expired  finally  early  in  1923.  This  experience  of  newspaper  proprietor 
ship  gave  me  a  fright,  and  ever  since  I  have  refused  to  assume  respon 
sibility  as  a  director  of  any  newspaper.  Indeed  I  could  not  do  so  because 
of  my  preoccupations  in  prison  and  outside. 

Father  presided  over  the  Amritsar  Congress  during  Christmas,  1919. 
He  issued  a  moving  appeal  to  the  Moderate  leaders  or  the  Liberals,  as 
they  were  now  calling  themselves,  to  join  this  session  because  of  the 
new  situation  created  by  the  horrors  of  martial  law.  "The  lacerated 
heart  of  the  Punjab"  called  to  them,  he  wrote.  Would  they  not  answer 
that  call?  But  they  did  not  answer  it  in  the  way  he  wanted,  and  refused 
to  join.  Their  eyes  were  on  the  new  reforms  that  were  coming  as  a 
result  of  the  Montagu-Chelmsford  recommendations.  This  refusal  hurt 
father  and  widened  the  gulf  between  him  and  the  Liberals. 

The  Amritsar  Congress  was  the  first  Gandhi  Congress.  Lokamanya 
Tilak  was  also  present  and  took  a  prominent  part  in  the  deliberations, 
but  there  could  be  no  doubt  about  it  that  the  majority  of  the  delegates, 
and  even  more  so  the  great  crowds  outside,  looked  to  Gandhi  for  lead 
ership.  The  slogan  Mahatma  Gandhi  \i  jai  began  to  dominate  the 
Indian  political  horizon.  The  Ali  brothers,  recently  discharged  from 
internment,  immediately  joined  the  Congress,  and  the  national  move 
ment  began  to  take  a  new  shape  and  develop  a  new  orientation. 

M.  Mohamad  Ali  went  off  soon  on  a  Khilafat  deputation  to  Europe. 
In  India  the  Khilafat  Committee  came  more  and  more  under  Gand- 
hiji's  influence  and  began  to  flirt  with  his  ideas  of  nonviolent  nonco- 
operation.  I  remember  one  of  the  earliest  meetings  of  the  Khilafat 
leaders  and  Moulvies  and  Ulemas  in  Delhi  in  January  1920.  A  Khilafat 
deputation  was  going  to  wait  on  the  Viceroy,  and  Gandhiji  was  to  join 
it.  Before  he  reached  Delhi,  however,  a  draft  of  the  proposed  address 
was,  according  to  custom,  sent  to  the  Viceroy.  When  Gandhiji  arrived 
and  read  this  draft,  he  strongly  disapproved  of  it  and  even  said  that  he 
could  not  be  a  party  to  the  deputation  if  this  draft  was  not  materially 
altered.  His  objection  was  that  the  draft  was  vague  and  wordy,  and 
there  was  no  clear  indication  in  it  of  the  absolute  minimum  demands 
which  the  Moslems  must  have.  He  said  that  this  was  not  fair  to  the 


Viceroy  and  the  British  Government,  or  to  the  people,  or  to  themselves. 
They  must  not  make  exaggerated  demands  which  they  were  not  going 
to  press,  but  should  state  the  minimum  clearly  and  without  possibility 
of  doubt,  and  stand  by  it  to  the  death.  If  they  were  serious,  this  was 
the  only  right  and  honorable  course  to  adopt. 

This  argument  was  a  novel  one  in  political  or  other  circles  in  India. 
We  were  used  to  vague  exaggerations  and  flowery  language,  and 
always  there  was  an  idea  of  a  bargain  in  our  minds.  Gandhiji,  how 
ever,  carried  his  point;  and  he  wrote  to  the  private  secretary  of  the 
Viceroy,  pointing  out  the  defects  and  vagueness  of  the  draft  address 
sent,  and  forwarding  a  few  additional  paragraphs  to  be  added  to  it. 
These  paragraphs  gave  the  minimum  demands.  The  Viceroy's  reply 
was  interesting.  He  refused  to  accept  the  new  paragraphs  and  said  that 
the  previous  draft  was,  in  his  opinion,  quite  proper.  Gandhiji  felt  that 
this  correspondence  had  made  his  own  position  and  that  of  the  Khila- 
fat  Committee  clear,  and  so  he  joined  the  deputation  after  all. 

It  was  obvious  that  the  Government  were  not  going  to  accept  the 
demands  of  the  Khilafat  Committee,  and  a  struggle  was  therefore 
bound  to  come.  There  were  long  talks  with  the  Moulvies  and  the 
Ulemas,  and  nonviolence  and  nonco-operation  were  discussed,  especi 
ally  nonviolence.  Gandhiji  told  them  that  he  was  theirs  to  command, 
but  on  the  definite  understanding  that  they  accepted  nonviolence  with 
all  its  implications.  There  was  to  be  no  weakening  on  that,  no  tem 
porizing,  no  mental  reservations.  It  was  not  easy  for  the  Moulvies  to 
grasp  this  idea,  but  they  agreed,  making  it  clear  that  they  did  so  as  a 
policy  only  and  not  as  a  creed,  for  their  religion  did  not  prohibit  the 
use  of  violence  in  a  righteous  cause. 

The  political  and  the  Khilafat  movements  developed  side  by  side 
during  1920,  both  going  in  the  same  direction  and  eventually  joining 
hands  with  the  adoption  by  the  Congress  of  Gandhiji's  nonviolent  non- 
co-operation.  The  Khilafat  Committee  adopted  this  program  first,  and 
August  i  was  fixed  for  the  commencement  of  the  campaign. 

Earlier  in  the  year  a  Moslem  meeting  (I  think  it  was  the  Council  of 
the  Moslem  League)  was  held  in  Allahabad  to  consider  this  program. 
The  meeting  took  place  in  Syed  Raza  Ali's  house.  M.  Mohamad  Ali 
was  still  in  Europe,  but  M.  Shaukat  Ali  was  present.  I  remember  that 
meeting  because  it  thoroughly  disappointed  me.  Shaukat  Ali  was,  of 
course,  full  of  enthusiasm;  but  almost  all  the  others  looked  thoroughly 
unhappy  and  uncomfortable.  They  did  not  have  the  courage  to  dis 
agree,  and  yet  they  obviously  had  no  intention  of  doing  anything  rash. 

52 


Were  these  the  people  to  lead  a  revolutionary  movement,  I  thought, 
and  to  challenge  the  British  Empire?  Gandhiji  addressed  them,  and 
after  hearing  him  they  looked  even  more  frightened  than  before.  He 
spoke  well  in  his  best  dictatorial  vein.  He  was  humble  but  also  clear- 
cut  and  hard  as  a  diamond,  pleasant  and  soft-spoken  but  inflexible 
and  terribly  earnest.  His  eyes  were  mild  and  deep,  yet  out  of  them 
blazed  a  fierce  energy  and  determination.  This  is  going  to  be  a  great 
struggle,  he  said,  with  a  very  powerful  adversary.  If  you  want  to  take 
it  up,  you  must  be  prepared  to  lose  everything,  and  you  must  subject 
yourself  to  the  strictest  nonviolence  and  discipline.  When  war  is 
declared,  martial  law  prevails,  and  in  our  nonviolent  struggle  there 
will  also  have  to  be  dictatorship  and  martial  law  on  our  side  if  we  are 
to  win.  You  have  every  right  to  kick  me  out,  to  demand  my  head,  or 
to  punish  me  whenever  and  howsoever  you  choose.  But,  so  long  as  you 
choose  to  keep  me  as  your  leader,  you  must  accept  my  conditions,  you 
must  accept  dictatorship  and  the  discipline  of  martial  law.  But  that 
dictatorship  will  always  be  subject  to  your  good  will  and  to  your 
acceptance  and  to  your  co-operation.  The  moment  you  have  had 
enough  of  me,  throw  me  out,  trample  upon  me,  and  I  shall  not 
complain. 

Something  to  this  effect  he  said,  and  these  military  analogies  and  the 
unyielding  earnestness  of  the  man  made  the  flesh  of  most  of  his 
hearers  creep.  But  Shaukat  Ali  was  there  to  keep  the  waverers  up  to 
the  mark;  and,  when  the  time  for  voting  came,  the  great  majority  of 
them  quietly  and  shamefacedly  voted  for  the  proposition— for  war! 

As  we  were  coming  home  from  the  meeting,  I  asked  Gandhiji  if 
this  was  the  way  to  start  a  great  struggle.  I  had  expected  enthusiasm, 
spirited  language,  and  a  flashing  of  eyes;  instead  we  saw  a  very  tame 
gathering  of  timid,  middle-aged  folk.  And  yet  these  people,  such  was 
the  pressure  of  mass  opinion,  voted  for  the  struggle.  Of  course,  very 
few  of  these  members  of  the  Moslem  League  joined  the  struggle  later. 
Many  of  them  found  a  safe  sanctuary  in  Government  jobs.  The  Mos 
lem  League  did  not  represent,  then  or  later,  any  considerable  section  of 
Moslem  opinion.  It  was  the  Khilafat  Committee  of  1920  that  was  a 
powerful  and  far  more  representative  body,  and  it  was  this  Committee 
that  entered  upon  the  struggle  with  enthusiasm. 


53 


X 

I  AM  EXTERNED,  AND  THE  CONSEQUENCES 

My  POLITICS  HAD  been  those  of  my  class,  the  bourgeoisie.  Indeed  all 
vocal  politics  then  (and  to  a  great  extent  even  now)  were  those  of  the 
middle  classes,  and  Moderate  and  Extremist  alike  represented  them 
and,  in  different  keys,  sought  their  betterment.  The  Moderate  repre 
sented  especially  the  handful  of  the  upper  middle  class  who  had  on  the 
whole  prospered  under  British  rule  and  wanted  no  sudden  changes 
which  might  endanger  their  present  position  and  interests.  They  had 
close  relations  with  the  British  Government  and  the  big  landlord  class. 
The  Extremist  represented  also  the  lower  ranks  of  the  middle  class. 
The  industrial  workers,  their  number  swollen  up  by  the  war,  were  only 
locally  organized  in  some  places  and  had  little  influence.  The  peasantry 
were  a  blind,  poverty-stricken,  suffering  mass,  resigned  to  their  miser 
able  fate  and  sat  upon  and  exploited  by  all  who  came  in  contact  with 
them— the  Government,  landlords,  moneylenders,  petty  officials,  police, 
lawyers,  priests. 

In  1920  I  was  totally  ignorant  of  labor  conditions  in  factories  or 
fields,  and  my  political  outlook  was  entirely  bourgeois.  I  knew,  of 
course,  that  there  was  terrible  poverty  and  misery,  and  I  felt  that  the 
first  aim  of  a  politically  free  India  must  be  to  tackle  this  problem  of 
poverty.  But  political  freedom,  with  the  inevitable  dominance  of  the 
middle  class,  seemed  to  me  the  obvious  next  step.  I  was  paying  a  little 
more  attention  to  the  peasant  problem  since  Gandhiji's  agrarian  move 
ments.  But  my  mind  was  full  of  political  developments  and  of  nonco- 
operation,  which  was  looming  on  the  horizon. 

Just  then  a  new  interest  developed  in  my  life  which  was  to  play  an 
important  part  in  later  years.  I  was  thrown,  almost  without  any  will  of 
my  own,  into  contact  with  the  peasantry.  This  came  about  in  a  curious 
way. 

My  mother  and  Kamala  (my  wife)  were  both  unwell,  and  early  in 
May  1920  I  took  them  up  to  Mussoorie.  Peace  negotiations  were  pro 
ceeding  between  the  Afghan  and  British  envoys  (this  was  after  the 
brief  Afghan  War  in  1919  when  Amanullah  came  to  the  throne)  at 
Mussoorie,  and  the  Afghan  delegation  were  stopping  at  the  same 
hotel.  They  kept  to  themselves,  however,  fed  separately,  and  did  not 
appear  in  the  common  rooms.  I  was  not  particularly  interested  in  them, 
and  for  a  whole  month  I  did  not  see  a  single  member  of  their  delega- 

54 


tion,  or  if  I  saw  them  I  did  not  recognize  them.  Suddenly  one  eve 
ning  I  had  a  visit  from  the  superintendent  of  police,  who  showed  me  a 
letter  from  the  local  government  asking  him  to  get  an  undertaking 
from  me  that  I  would  not  have  any  dealings  or  contacts  with  the 
Afghan  delegation.  This  struck  me  as  extraordinary  since  I  had  not 
even  seen  them  during  a  month's  stay  and  there  was  little  chance  of 
my  doing  so.  The  superintendent  knew  this,  as  he  was  closely  watch 
ing  the  delegation,  and  there  were  literally  crowds  of  secret  service 
men  about.  But  to  give  any  undertaking  went  against  the  grain,  and  I 
told  him  so.  He  asked  me  to  see  the  district  magistrate,  the  superin 
tendent  of  the  Dun,  and  I  did  so.  As  I  persisted  in  my  refusal  to  give 
an  undertaking,  an  order  of  externment  was  served  on  me,  calling 
upon  me  to  leave  the  district  of  Dehra  Dun  within  twenty-four  hours, 
which  really  meant  within  a  few  hours  from  Mussoorie.  I  did  not  like 
the  idea  of  leaving  my  mother  and  wife,  both  of  whom  were  ailing; 
and  yet  I  did  not  think  it  right  to  break  the  order.  There  was  no  civil 
disobedience  then.  So  I  left  Mussoorie. 

My  father  had  known  Sir  Harcourt  Butler,  who  was  then  Governor 
of  the  United  Provinces,  fairly  well,  and  he  wrote  to  him  a  friendly 
letter  saying  that  he  was  sure  that  he  (Sir  Harcourt)  could  not  have 
issued  such  a  stupid  order;  it  must  be  some  bright  person  in  Simla  who 
was  responsible  for  it.  Sir  Harcourt  replied  that  the  order  was  quite  a 
harmless  one  and  Jawaharlal  could  easily  have  complied  with  it  with 
out  any  injury  to  his  dignity.  Father,  in  reply,  disagreed  with  this  and 
added  that,  although  there  was  no  intention  of  deliberately  breaking 
the  order,  if  my  mother's  or  wife's  health  demanded  it  I  would  cer 
tainly  return  to  Mussoorie,  order  or  no  order.  As  it  happened,  my 
mother's  condition  took  a  turn  for  the  worse,  and  both  father  and  I 
immediately  started  for  Mussoorie.  Just  before  starting,  we  received  a 
telegram  rescinding  the  order. 

When  we  reached  Mussoorie  the  next  morning,  the  first  person  I 
noticed  in  the  courtyard  of  the  hotel  was  an  Afghan  who  had  my  baby 
daughter  in  his  arms!  I  learned  that  he  was  a  minister  and  a  member 
of  the  Afghan  delegation.  It  transpired  that  immediately  after  my 
externment  the  Afghans  had  read  about  it  in  the  newspapers,  and  they 
were  so  much  interested  that  the  head  of  the  delegation  took  to  sending 
my  mother  a  basket  of  fruit  and  flowers  every  day. 

As  a  result  of  the  externment  order  from  Mussoorie  I  spent  about 
two  weeks  in  Allahabad,  and  it  was  during  this  period  that  I  got 
entangled  in  the  tysan  (peasant)  movement.  That  entanglement  grew 

55 


in  later  years  and  influenced  my  mental  outlook  greatly.  I  have  some 
times  wondered  what  would  have  happened  if  I  had  not  been  externed 
and  had  not  been  in  Allahabad  just  then  with  no  other  engagements. 
Very  probably  I  would  have  been  drawn  to  the  Jysans  anyhow,  sooner 
or  later,  but  the  manner  of  my  going  to  them  would  have  been  differ 
ent,  and  the  effect  on  me  might  also  have  been  different. 

Early  in  June  1920  (so  far  as  I  can  remember),  about  two  hundred 
\isans  marched  fifty  miles  from  the  interior  of  Partabgarh  district  to 
Allahabad  city  with  the  intention  of  drawing  the  attention  of  the 
prominent  politicians  there  to  their  woebegone  condition.  They  were 
led  by  a  man  named  Ramachandra,  who  himself  was  not  a  local  peas 
ant.  I  learned  that  these  \isans  were  squatting  on  the  river  bank,  on  one 
of  the  Jumna  ghats,  and,  accompanied  by  some  friends,  went  to  see 
them.  They  told  us  of  the  crushing  exactions  of  the  talukdars,  of 
inhuman  treatment,  and  that  their  condition  had  become  wholly  intol 
erable.  They  begged  us  to  accompany  them  back  to  make  inquiries  as 
well  as  to  protect  them  from  the  vengeance  of  the  talukdars,  who  were 
angry  at  their  having  come  to  Allahabad  on  this  mission.  They  would 
accept  no  denial  and  literally  clung  onto  us.  At  last  I  promised  to  visit 
them  two  days  or  so  later. 

I  went  there  with  some  colleagues,  and  we  spent  three  days  in  the 
villages  far  from  the  railway  and  even  the  pucca  road.  That  visit  was  a 
revelation  to  me.  We  found  the  whole  countryside  afire  with  enthu 
siasm  and  full  of  a  strange  excitement.  Enormous  gatherings  would 
take  place  at  the  briefest  notice  by  word  of  mouth.  One  village  would 
communicate  with  another,  and  the  second  with  the  third,  and  so  on; 
and  presently  whole  villages  would  empty  out,  and  all  over  the  fields 
there  would  be  men  and  women  and  children  on  the  march  to  the 
meeting  place.  Or,  more  swiftly  still,  the  cry  of  Sita-Ram—Sita-Ra- 
a-a-a-m — would  fill  the  air,  and  travel  far  in  all  directions  and  be 
echoed  back  from  other  villages,  and  then  people  would  come  stream 
ing  out  or  even  running  as  fast  as  they  could.  They  were  in  miserable 
rags,  men  and  women,  but  their  faces  were  full  of  excitement  and 
their  eyes  glistened  and  seemed  to  expect  strange  happenings  which 
would,  as  if  by  a  miracle,  put  an  end  to  their  long  misery. 

They  showered  their  affection  on  us  and  looked  on  us  with  loving 
and  hopeful  eyes,  as  if  we  were  the  bearers  of  good  tidings,  the  guides 
who  were  to  lead  them  to  the  promised  land.  Looking  at  them  and 
their  misery  and  overflowing  gratitude,  I  was  filled  with  shame  and 
sorrow— shame  at  my  own  easygoing  and  comfortable  life  and  our 

56 


petty  politics  of  the  city  which  ignored  this  vast  multitude  of  semi- 
naked  sons  and  daughters  of  India,  sorrow  at  the  degradation  and 
overwhelming  poverty  of  India.  A  new  picture  of  India  seemed  to  rise 
before  me,  naked,  starving,  crushed,  and  utterly  miserable.  And  their 
faith  in  us,  casual  visitors  from  the  distant  city,  embarrassed  me  and 
filled  me  with  a  new  responsibility  that  frightened  me. 

I  listened  to  their  innumerable  tales  of  sorrow,  their  crushing  and 
ever-growing  burden  of  rent,  illegal  exactions,  ejectments  from  land 
and  mud  hut,  beatings;  surrounded  on  all  sides  by  vultures  who  preyed 
on  them — zamindar's  agents,  moneylenders,  police;  toiling  all  day  to 
find  what  they  produced  was  not  theirs  and  their  reward  was  kicks  and 
curses  and  a  hungry  stomach.  Many  of  those  who  were  present  were 
landless  people  who  had  been  ejected  by  the  landlords  and  had  no  land 
or  hut  to  fall  back  upon.  The  land  was  rich,  but  the  burden  on  it  was 
very  heavy,  the  holdings  were  small,  and  there  were  too  many  people 
after  them.  Taking  advantage  of  this  land  hunger,  the  landlords, 
unable  under  the  law  to  enhance  their  rents  beyond  a  certain  percent 
age,  charged  huge  illegal  premiums.  The  tenant,  knowing  of  no  other 
alternative,  borrowed  money  from  the  moneylender  and  paid  the  pre 
mium,  and  then,  unable  to  pay  his  debt  or  even  the  rent,  was  ejected 
and  lost  all  he  had. 

This  process  was  an  old  one,  and  the  progressive  pauperization  of 
the  peasantry  had  been  going  on  for  a  long  time.  What  had  happened 
to  bring  matters  to  a  head  and  rouse  up  the  countryside?  Economic 
conditions,  of  course,  but  these  conditions  were  similar  all  over  Oudh, 
while  the  agrarian  upheaval  of  1920  and  1921  was  largely  confined  to 
three  districts.  This  was  partly  due  to  the  leadership  of  a  remarkable 
person,  Ramachandra. 

Ramachandra  was  a  man  from  Maharashtra  in  western  India,  and  he 
had  been  to  Fiji  as  an  indentured  laborer.  On  his  return  he  had  gradu 
ally  drifted  to  these  districts  of  Oudh  and  wandered  about  reciting 
Tulsidas's  Ramayana  and  listening  to  tenants'  grievances.  He  had  little 
education,  and  to  some  extent  he  exploited  the  tenantry  for  his  own 
benefit,  but  he  showed  remarkable  powers  of  organization.  He  taught 
the  peasants  to  meet  frequently  in  sabhas  (meetings)  to  discuss  their 
own  troubles  and  thus  gave  them  a  feeling  of  solidarity.  Occasionally 
huge  mass  meetings  were  held,  and  this  produced  a  sense  of  power. 
Sita-Ram  was  an  old  and  common  cry,  but  he  gave  it  an  almost  war 
like  significance  and  made  it  a  signal  for  emergencies  as  well  as  a  bond 
between  different  villages. 

57 


Oudh  was  a  particularly  good  area  for  an  agrarian  agitation.  It  was, 
and  is,  the  land  o£  the  talukdars — the  "Barons  of  Oudh"  they  call  them 
selves — and  the  zamindari  system  at  its  worst  flourished  there.  The 
exactions  of  the  landlords  were  becoming  unbearable,  and  the  number 
of  landless  laborers  was  growing.  There  was  on  the  whole  only  one 
class  of  tenant,  and  this  helped  united  action. 

India  may  be  roughly  divided  into  two  parts — the  zamindari  area 
with  its  big  landlords,  and  the  area  containing  peasant  proprietors,  but 
there  is  a  measure  of  overlapping.  The  three  provinces  of  Bengal, 
Behar,  and  the  United  Provinces  of  Agra  and  Oudh,  form  the  zamin 
dari  area.  The  peasant  proprietors  are  comparatively  better  off,  al 
though  even  their  condition  is  often  pitiable.  The  mass  of  the  peas 
antry  in  the  Punjab  or  Gujrat  (where  there  are  peasant  proprietors)  is 
far  better  off  than  the  tenants  of  the  zamindari  areas.  In  the  greater 
part  of  these  zamindari  areas  there  are  many  kinds  of  tenancies — 
occupancy  tenants,  nonoccupancy  tenants,  subtenancies,  etc.  The  inter 
ests  of  various  tenants  often  conflict  with  one  another,  and  this  mili 
tates  against  joint  action.  In  Oudh,  however,  there  were  no  occupancy 
tenants  or  even  life  tenants  in  1920.  There  were  only  short-term  ten 
ants  who  were  continually  being  ejected  in  favor  of  someone  who  was 
willing  to  pay  a  higher  premium.  Because  there  was  principally  one 
class  of  tenant,  it  was  easier  to  organize  them  for  joint  action. 

In  practice  there  was  no  guarantee  in  Oudh  for  even  the  short  term 
of  the  contract.  A  landlord  hardly  ever  gave  a  receipt  for  rent  received, 
and  he  could  always  say  that  the  rent  had  not  been  paid  and  eject  the 
tenant,  for  whom  it  was  impossible  to  prove  the  contrary.  Besides  the 
rent  there  were  an  extraordinary  number  of  illegal  exactions.  In  one 
taluk  I  was  told  that  there  had  been  as  many  as  fifty  different  kinds  of 
such  exactions.  Probably  this  number  was  exaggerated,  but  it  is  noto 
rious  how  talukdars  often  make  their  tenants  pay  for  every  special 
expenditure— a  marriage  in  the  family,  cost  of  the  son's  education  in 
foreign  countries,  a  party  to  the  Governor  or  other  high  official,  a  pur 
chase  of  a  car  or  an  elephant.  Indeed  these  exactions  have  got  special 
names— motrauna  (tax  for  purchase  of  motor),  hathauna  (tax  for  pur 
chase  of  elephant),  etc. 

It  was  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  a  big  agrarian  agitation  should 
develop  in  Oudh.  The  agrarian  movement  was  entirely  separate  from 
the  Congress,  and  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  nonco-operation  that 
was  taking  shape.  Perhaps  it  is  more  correct  to  say  that  both  these 

58 


widespread  and  powerful  movements  were  due  to  the  same  funda 
mental  causes. 

What  amazed  me  still  more  was  our  total  ignorance  in  the  cities  of 
this  great  agrarian  movement.  No  newspaper  had  contained  a  line 
about  it;  they  were  not  interested  in  rural  areas.  I  realized  more  than 
ever  how  cut  off  we  were  from  our  people  and  how  we  lived  and 
worked  and  agitated  in  a  little  world  apart  from  them. 


XI 

WANDERINGS  AMONG  THE  KISANS 

I  SPENT  THREE  days  in  the  villages,  came  back  to  Allahabad,  and  then 
went  again.  During  these  brief  visits  we  wandered  about  a  great  deal 
from  village  to  village,  eating  with  the  peasants,  living  with  them 
in  their  mud  huts,  talking  to  them  for  long  hours,  and  often  addressing 
meetings,  big  and  small.  We  had  originally  gone  in  a  light  car,  arid  the 
peasants  were  so  keen  that  hundreds  of  them,  working  overnight, 
built  temporary  roads  across  the  fields  so  that  our  car  could  go  right 
into  the  interior.  Often  the  car  got  stuck  and  was  bodily  lifted  out  by 
scores  of  willing  hands.  But  we  had  to  leave  the  car  eventually  and  to 
do  most  of  our  journeying  by  foot.  Everywhere  we  went  we  were 
accompanied  by  policemen,  Criminal  Investigation  Department  men, 
and  a  deputy  collector  from  Lucknow.  I  am  afraid  we  gave  them  a 
bad  time  with  our  continuous  marching  across  fields,  and  they  were 
quite  tired  out  and  fed  up  with  us  and  the  {zsans.  The  deputy  collector 
was  a  somewhat  effeminate  youth  from  Lucknow,  and  he  had  turned 
up  in  patent  leather  pumps!  He  begged  us  sometimes  to  restrain  our 
ardor,  and  I  think  he  ultimately  dropped  out,  being  unable  to  keep  up 
with  us. 

It  was  the  hottest  time  of  the  year,  June,  just  before  the  monsoon. 
The  sun  scorched  and  blinded.  I  was  quite  unused  to  going  out  in  the 
sun,  and  ever  since  my  return  from  England  I  had  gone  to  the  hills 
for  part  of  every  summer.  And  now  I  was  wandering  about  all  day 
in  the  open  sun  with  not  even  a  sun  hat,  my  head  being  wrapped  in  a 
small  towel.  So  full  was  I  of  other  matters  that  I  quite  forgot  about 
the  heat,  and  it  was  only  on  my  return  to  Allahabad,  when  I  noticed 
the  rich  tan  I  had  developed,  that  I  remembered  what  I  had  gone 

59 


through.  I  was  pleased  with  myself,  for  I  realized  that  I  could  stand 
the  heat  with  the  best  of  them  and  my  fear  of  it  was  wholly  unjustified. 
I  have  found  that  I  can  bear  both  extreme  heat  and  great  cold  without 
much  discomfort,  and  this  has  stood  me  in  good  stead  in  my  work  as 
well  as  in  my  periods  in  prison.  This  was  no  doubt  due  to  my  general 
physical  fitness  and  my  habit  of  taking  exercise,  a  lesson  I  learned 
from  my  father,  who  was  a  bit  of  an  athlete  and,  almost  to  the  end 
of  his  days,  continued  his  daily  exercise.  His  head  became  covered  with 
silvery  hair,  his  face  was  deeply  furrowed  and  looked  old  and  weary 
with  thought,  but  the  rest  of  his  body,  to  within  a  year  or  two  of  his 
death,  seemed  to  be  twenty  years  younger. 

Even  before  my  visit  to  Partabgarh  in  June  1920,  I  had  often  passed 
through  villages,  stopped  there  and  talked  to  the  peasants.  I  had  seen 
them  in  their  scores  of  thousands  on  the  banks  of  the  Ganges  during 
the  big  melasj  and  we  had  taken  our  home  rule  propaganda  to  them. 
But  somehow  I  had  not  fully  realized  what  they  were  and  what  they 
meant  to  India.  Like  most  of  us,  I  took  them  for  granted.  This  realiza 
tion  came  to  me  during  these  Partabgarh  visits,  and  ever  since  then  my 
mental  picture  of  India  always  contains  this  naked,  hungry  mass. 

These  peasants  took  away  the  shyness  from  me  and  taught  me  to 
speak  in  public.  Till  then  I  had  hardly  spoken  at  a  public  gathering; 
I  was  frightened  at  the  prospect,  especially  if  the  speaking  was  to 
be  done  in  Hindustani,  as  it  almost  always  was.  But  I  could  not 
possibly  avoid  addressing  these  peasant  gatherings,  and  how  could 
I  be  shy  of  these  poor  unsophisticated  people?  I  did  not  know  the 
arts  of  oratory,  and  so  I  spoke  to  them,  man  to  man,  and  told  them 
what  I  had  in  my  mind  and  in  my  heart.  Whether  the  gathering 
consisted  of  a  few  persons  or  of  ten  thousand  or  more,  I  stuck  to  my 
conversational  and  rather  personal  method  of  speaking,  and  I  found 
that,  whatever  might  be  lacking  in  it,  I  could  at  least  go  on.  I  was 
fluent  enough.  Perhaps  many  of  them  could  not  understand  a  great 
deal  of  what  I  said.  My  language  or  my  thought  was  not  simple 
enough  for  them.  Many  did  not  hear  me  when  the  gathering  was  very 
large,  for  my  voice  did  not  carry  far.  But  all  this  did  not  matter  much 
to  them  when  once  they  had  given  their  confidence  and  faith  to  a 
person. 

I  went  back  to  Mussoorie  to  my  mother  and  wife,  but  my  mind 
was  full  of  the  fysans,  and  I  was  eager  to  be  back.  As  soon  as  I  returned, 
I  resumed  my  visits  to  the  villages  and  watched  the  agrarian  movement 
grow  in  strength.  The  downtrodden  %isan  began  to  gain  a  new  confi- 

60 


dence  in  himself  and  walked  straighter  with  head  up.  His  fear  of  the 
landlords'  agents  and  the  police  lessened,  and,  when  there  was  an 
ejectment  from  a  holding,  no  other  tysan  would  make  an  offer  for 
that  land.  Physical  violence  on  the  part  of  the  zamindars'  servants  and 
illegal  exactions  became  infrequent,  and,  whenever  an  instance  oc 
curred,  it  was  immediately  reported  and  an  attempt  at  an  inquiry 
was  made.  This  checked  trie  zamindars'  agents  as  well  as  the  police. 

The  talukdars  and  the  big  zamindars,  the  lords  of  the  land,  the 
"natural  leaders  of  the  people,"  as  they  are  proud  of  calling  themselves, 
are  the  spoiled  children  of  the  British  Government;  but  that  Govern 
ment  had  succeeded,  by  the  special  education  and  upbringing  it 
provided  or  failed  to  provide  for  them,  in  reducing  them,  as  a  class, 
to  a  state  of  complete  intellectual  impotence.  They  do  nothing  at  all 
for  their  tenantry,  and  are  complete  parasites  on  the  land  and  the 
people.  Their  chief  activity  lies  in  endeavoring  to  placate  the  local 
officials,  without  whose  favor  they  could  not  exist  for  long,  and 
demanding  ceaselessly  a  protection  of  their  special  interests  and  privi 
leges. 

Right  through  the  year  1921  I  continued  my  visits  to  the  rural  areas, 
but  my  field  of  activity  grew  till  it  comprised  the  whole  of  the  United 
Provinces.  Nonco-operation  had  begun  in  earnest,  and  its  message 
had  reached  the  remotest  village.  A  host  of  Congress  workers  in  each 
district  went  about  the  rural  areas  with  the  new  message,  to  which 
they  often  added,  rather  vaguely,  a  removal  of  J(isan  grievances.  Swaraj 
was  an  all-embracing  word  to  cover  everything.  Yet  the  two  movements 
— nonco-operation  and  the  agrarian — were  quite  separate,  though  they 
overlapped  and  influenced  each  other  greatly  in  our  province.  As 
a  result  of  Congress  preaching,  litigation  went  down  with  a  rush  and 
villages  established  their  panchayats  to  deal  with  their  disputes.  Espe 
cially  powerful  was  the  influence  of  the  Congress  in  favor  of  peace, 
for  the  new  creed  of  nonviolence  was  stressed  wherever  the  Congress 
worker  went.  This  may  not  have  been  fully  appreciated  or  understood, 
but  it  did  prevent  the  peasantry  from  taking  to  violence. 

This  was  no  small  result.  Agrarian  upheavals  are  notoriously  violent, 
leading  to  jacqueries,  and  the  peasants  of  part  of  Oudh  in  those  days 
were  desperate  and  at  white  heat.  A  spark  would  have  .lighted  a  flame. 
Yet  they  remained  amazingly  peaceful.  The  only  instance  of  physical 
violence  on  a  talukdar  that  I  remember  was  when  a  peasant  went  up 
to  him  as  he  was  sitting  in  his  own  house,  surrounded  by  his  friends, 

61 


and  slapped  him  on  the  face  on  the  ground  that  he  was  immoral 
and  inconsiderate  to  his  own  wife! 

There  was  violence  of  another  kind  later  which  led  to  conflicts  with 
the  Government.  But  this  conflict  was  bound  to  come,  for  the  Govern 
ment  could  not  tolerate  this  growing  power  of  a  united  peasantry. 
The  fyisans  took  to  traveling  in  railway  trains  in  large  numbers  with 
out  tickets,  especially  when  they  had  to  attend  their  periodical  big 
mass  meetings  which  sometimes  consisted  of  sixty  or  seventy  thousand 
persons.  It  was  difficult  to  move  them,  and,  unheard-of  thing,  they 
openly  defied  the  railway  authorities,  telling  them  that  the  old  days 
were  gone.  At  whose  instigation  they  took  to  the  free  mass  traveling 
I  do  not  know.  Stricter  railway  control  prevented  this  later. 

In  the  autumn  of  1920  a  few  Jysan  leaders  were  arrested  for 
some  petty  offense.  They  were  to  be  tried  in  Partabgarh  town,  but 
on  the  day  of  the  trial  a  huge  concourse  of  peasants  filled  the  court 
compound  and  lined  the  route  to  the  jail  where  the  accused  leaders 
were  kept.  The  magistrate's  nerve  gave  way,  and  he  postponed  the 
trial  to  the  next  day.  But  the  crowd  grew  and  almost  surrounded  the 
jail.  The  Tysons  can  easily  carry  on  for  a  few  days  on  a  handful  of 
parched  grain.  Ultimately  the  tysan^  leaders  were  discharged,  perhaps 
after  a  formal  trial  inside  the  jail.  I  forget  how  this  came  about,  but 
for  the  tysans  this  was  a  great  triumph,  and  they  began  to  think  that 
they  could  always  have  their  way  by  weight  of  numbers  alone.  To  the 
Government  this  position  was  intolerable,  and  soon  after  a  similar 
occasion  arose;  this  time  it  ended  differently. 

At  the  beginning  of  January  1921  I  received  a  telegram  from 
Rae  Bareli  asking  me  to  go  there  immediately  as  trouble  was  expected. 
I  left  the  next  day.  I  discovered  that  some  leading  \isans  had  been  ar 
rested  some  days  back  and  had  been  lodged  in  the  local  jail.  Remember 
ing  their  success  at  Partabgarh  and  the  tactics  they  had  then  adopted, 
the  peasants  marched  to  Rae  Bareli  town  for  a  mass  demonstration.  But 
this  time  the  Government  was  not  going  to  permit  it,  and  additional  po 
lice  and  military  had  been  collected  to  stop  the  \isans.  Just  outside  the 
town  on  the  other  side  of  a  little  river  the  main  body  of  the  \isans  was 
stopped.  Many  of  them,  however,  streamed  in  from  other  directions. 
On  arrival  at  the  station  I  learned  of  this  situation,  and  immediately  I 
proceeded  straight  to  the  river  where  the  military  were  said  to  face 
the  peasants.  On  the  way  I  received  a  hurriedly  written  note  from 
the  district  magistrate  asking  me  to  go  back.  I  wrote  my  reply  on  the 
back  of  it  inquiring  under  what  law  and  what  section  he  was  asking 

62 


me  to  go  back  and  saying  that  till  I  heard  from  him  I  proposed  to  go 
on.  As  I  reached  the  river,  sounds  of  firing  could  be  heard  from  the 
other  side.  I  was  stopped  at  the  bridge  by  the  military,  and,  as  I 
waited  there,  I  was  suddenly  surrounded  by  large  numbers  of  frightened 
fysans  who  had  been  hiding  in  the  fields  on  this  side  of  the  river.  So 
I  held  a  meeting  of  about  a  couple  of  thousand  peasants  on  the  spot 
and  tried  to  remove  their  fear  and  lessen  their  excitement.  It  was 
rather  an  unusual  situation  with  firing  going  on  against  their  brethren 
within  a  stone's  throw  across  a  little  stream  and  the  military  in  evidence 
everywhere.  But  the  meeting  was  quite  successful  and  took  away  the 
edge  from  the  tysans'  fear.  The  district  magistrate  then  returned  from 
the  firing  line,  and,  at  his  request,  I  accompanied  him  to  his  house. 
There  he  kept  me,  under  some  pretext  or  other,  for  over  two  hours, 
evidently  wanting  to  keep  me  away  from  the  fyisans  and  my  colleagues 
in  the  city. 

We  found  later  that  many  men  had  been  killed  in  the  firing.  The 
tysans  had  refused  to  disperse  or  to  go  back,  but  otherwise  they  had 
been  perfectly  peaceful.  I  am  quite  sure  that  if  I  or  someone  else  they 
trusted  had  been  there  and  had  asked  them  to  do  so  they  would  have 
dispersed.  They  refused  to  take  their  orders  from  men  they  did  not 
trust.  Someone  actually  suggested  to  the  magistrate  to  wait  for  me 
a  little,  but  he  refused.  He  could  not  permit  an  agitator  to  succeed 
where  he  had  failed.  That  is  not  the  way  of  foreign  governments 
depending  on  prestige. 

Firing  on  fysans  took  place  on  two  occasions  in  Rae  Bareli  district 
about  that  time,  and  then  began,  what  was  much  worse,  a  reign  of 
terror  for  every  prominent  tysan  worker  or  member  of  a  fane  hay  at. 
Government  had  decided  to  crush  the  movement. 

A  little  later  in  the  year  1921,  Fyzabad  district  had  its  dose  of  wide 
spread  repression.  The  trouble  started  there  in  a  peculiar  way.  The 
peasants  of  some  villages  went  and  looted  the  property  of  a  talukdar. 
It  transpired  subsequently  that  they  had  been  incited  to  do  so  by  the 
servants  of  another  zamindar  who  had  some  kind  of  feud  with  the 
talukdar.  The  poor  ignorant  peasants  were  actually  told  that  it  was  the 
wish  of  Mahatma  Gandhi  that  they  should  loot,  and  they  willingly 
agreed  to  carry  out  this  behest,  shouting  "Mahatma  Gandhi  ty  jai" 
in  the  process. 

I  was  very  angry  when  I  heard  of  this,  and  within  a  day  or  two  of 
the  occurrence  I  was  on  the  spot,  somewhere  near  Akbarpur  in  Fyza 
bad  district.  On  arrival  I  called  a  meeting  for  the  same  day,  and  within 


a  few  hours  five  or  six  thousand  persons  had  collected  from  numerous 
villages  within  a  radius  of  ten  miles.  I  spoke  harshly  to  them  for  the 
shame  they  had  brought  on  themselves  and  our  cause  and  said  that 
the  guilty  persons  must  confess  publicly.  (I  was  full  in  those  days  of 
what  I  conceived  to  be  the  spirit  of  Gandhiji's  Satyagraha.}  I  called 
upon  those  who  had  participated  in  the  looting  to  raise  their  hands, 
and,  strange  to  say,  there  in  the  presence  of  numerous  police  officials 
about  two  dozen  hands  went  up.  That  meant  certain  trouble  for  them. 

When  I  spoke  to  many  of  them  privately  later  and  heard  their 
artless  story  of  how  they  had  been  misled,  I  felt  very  sorry  for  them, 
and  I  began  to  regret  having  exposed  these  simple  folk  to  long  terms 
of  imprisonment.  But  the  people  who  suffered  were  not  just  two  or 
three  dozen.  The  chance  was  too  good  to  be  lost,  and  full  advantage 
was  taken  of  the  occasion  to  crush  the  agrarian  movement  in  that 
district.  Over  a  thousand  arrests  were  made,  the  district  jail  was  over 
crowded,  and  the  trial  went  on  for  the  best  part  of  a  year.  Many  died 
in  prison  during  the  trial.  Many  others  received  long  sentences,  and 
in  later  years,  when  I  went  to  prison,  I  came  across  some  of  them,  boys 
and  young  men,  spending  their  youth  in  prison. 

The  Indian  fysans  have  little  staying  power,  little  energy  to  resist 
for  long.  Famines  and  epidemics  come  and  slay  them  in  their  millions. 
It  was  surprising  that  they  had  shown  for  a  whole  year  great  powers 
of  resistance  against  the  combined  pressure  of  government  and  land 
lord.  But  they  began  to  weary  a  little,  and  the  determined  attack  of 
the  Government  on  their  movement  ultimately  broke  its'  spirit  for  the 
time  being.  But  it  continued  still  in  a  lower  key.  There  were  not  such 
vast  demonstrations  as  before,  but  most  villages  contained  old  workers 
who  had  not  been  terrorized  and  who  carried  on  the  work  in  a  small 
way. 

Frightened  by  the  agrarian  movement,  the  Government  hurried 
its  tenancy  legislation.  This  promised  some  improvement  in  the  lot 
of  the  fysan,  but  the  measure  was  toned  down  when  it  was  found 
that  the  movement  was  already  under  control.  The  principal  change 
it  affected  was  to  give  a  life  tenancy  to  the  tysan  in  Oudh.  This  sounded 
attractive  to  him  but,  as  he  has  found  out  subsequently,  his  lot  is  in 
no  way  better. 

Agrarian  troubles  continued  to  crop  up  in  Oudh  but  on  a  smaller 
scale.  The  world  depression  which  began  in  1929,  however,  again 
created  a  great  crisis  owing  to  the  fall  in  prices. 


XII 

NONCO-OPERATION 

I  HAVE  DEALT  with  the  Oudh  agrarian  upheaval  in  some  little  detail 
because  it  lifted  the  veil  and  disclosed  to  me  a  fundamental  aspect 
of  the  Indian  problem  to  which  nationalists  had  paid  hardly  any 
attention.  Agrarian  troubles  are  frequently  taking  place  in  various 
parts  of  India,  symptoms  of  a  deep-seated  unrest,  and  the  f^isan  agita 
tion  in  certain  parts  of  Oudh  in  1920  and  1921  was  but  one  of  them, 
though  it  was,  in  its  own  way,  a  remarkable  and  revealing  one.  In  its 
origin  it  was  entirely  unconnected  with  politics  or  politicians,  and 
right  through  its  course  the  influence  of  outsiders  and  politicians  was 
of  the  slightest.  From  an  all-India  point  of  view,  however,  it  was  a 
local  affair,  and  very  little  attention  was  paid  to  it.  Even  the  news 
papers  of  the  United  Provinces  largely  ignored  it.  For  their  editors  and 
the  majority  of  their  town-dwelling  readers,  the  doings  of  mobs  of 
seminaked  peasants  had  no  real  political  or  other  significance. 

The  Punjab  and  the  Khilafat  wrongs  were  the  topics  of  the  day, 
and  nonco-operation,  which  was  to  attempt  to  bring  about  a  righting 
of  these  wrongs,  was  the  all-absorbing  subject.  The  larger  issue  of 
national  freedom,  or  Swaraj  was  for  the  moment  not  stressed.  Gandhi ji 
disliked  vague  and  big  objectives;  he  always  preferred  concentrating 
on  something  specific  and  definite.  Nevertheless,  Swaraj  was  very  much 
in  the  air  and  in  people's  thoughts,  and  frequent  reference  was  made  to 
it  in  innumerable  gatherings  and  conferences. 

In  the  autumn  of  1920  a  special  session  of  the  Congress  met  at 
Calcutta  to  consider  what  steps  should  be  taken  and,  in  particular, 
to  decide  about  nonco-operation. 

Of  the  prominent  leaders  of  the  older  generation  my  father  was 
the  only  one  to  take  his  stand  by  Gandhiji  at  that  time.  It  was  no 
easy  matter  for  him  to  do  so.  He  sensed  and  was  much  influenced  by 
the  objections  that  had  led  most  of  his  old  colleagues  to  oppose.  He 
hesitated,  as  they  did,  to  take  a  novel  step  toward  an  unknown  region, 
where  it  was  hardly  possible  to  keep  one's  old  bearings.  Yet  he  was 
inevitably  drawn  to  some  form  of  effective  action,  and  the  proposal 
did  embody  definite  action,  though  not  exactly  on  the  lines  of  his 
thought.  It  took  him  a  long  time  to  make  up  his  mind. 

I  saw  very  little  of  father  in  those  days  before  the  Calcutta  Special 
Congress.  But,  whenever  I  met  him,  I  noticed  how  he  was  continually 


grappling  with  this  problem.  Quite  apart  from  the  national  aspect  o£ 
the  question  there  was  the  personal  aspect.  Nonco-operation  meant 
his  withdrawing  from  his  legal  practice;  it  meant  a  total  break  with 
his  past  life  and  a  new  fashioning  of  it — not  an  easy  matter  when 
one  is  on  the  eve  of  one's  sixtieth  birthday.  It  was  a  break  from  old 
political  colleagues,  from  his  profession.,  from  the  social  life  to  which 
he  had  grown  accustomed,  and  a  giving  up  of  many  an  expensive 
habit.  For  the  financial  aspect  of  the  question  was  not  an  unimportant 
one,  and  it  was  obvious  that  he  would  have  to  reduce  his  standard 
of  living  if  his  income  from  his  profession  vanished. 

But  his  reason,  his  strong  sense  of  self-respect,  and  his  pride,  all  led 
him  step  by  step  to  throw  in  his  lot  wholeheartedly  with  the  new 
movement.  The  accumulated  anger  with  which  a  series  of  events,  cul 
minating  in  the  Punjab  tragedy  and  its  aftermath,  filled  him;  the  sense 
of  utter  wrong-doing  and  injustice;  the  bitterness  of  national  humilia 
tion — these  had  to  find  some  way  out.  But  he  was  not  to  be  swept 
away  by  a  wave  of  enthusiasm.  It  was  only  when  his  reason,  backed 
by  the  trained  mind  of  a  lawyer,  had  weighed  all  the  pros  and  cons 
that  he  took  the  final  decision  and  joined  Gandhiji  in  his  campaign. 

He  was  attracted  by  Gandhiji  as  a  man,  and  that  no  doubt  was  a 
factor  which  influenced  him.  Nothing  could  have  made  him  a  close 
associate  of  a  person  he  disliked,  for  he  was  always  strong  in  his  likes 
and  dislikes.  But  it  was  a  strange  combination — the  saint,  the  stoic, 
the  man  of  religion,  one  who  went  through  life  rejecting  what  it  offers 
in  the  way  of  sensation  and  physical  pleasure,  and  one  who  had  been 
a  bit  of  an  epicure,  who  accepted  life  and  welcomed  and  enjoyed  its 
many  sensations,  caring  litde  for  what  might  come  in  the  hereafter. 
In  the  language  of  psychoanalysis  it  was  a  meeting  of  an  introvert  with 
an  extrovert.  Yet  there  were  common  bonds,  common  interests,  which 
drew  the  two  together  and  kept  up,  even  when,  in  later  years,  their 
politics  diverged,  a  close  friendship  between  them. 

This  special  session  at  Calcutta  began  the  Gandhi  era  in  Congress 
politics  which  has  lasted  since  then,  except  for  a  period  in  the  twenties 
when  he  kept  in  the  background  and  allowed  the  Swaraj  party,  under 
the  leadership  of  Deshbandhu  C.  R.  Das  and  my  father,  to  fill  the 
picture.  The  whole  look  of  the  Congress  changed;  European  clothes 
vanished,  and  soon  only  \hadi  was  to  be  seen;  a  new  class  of  delegate, 
chiefly  drawn  from  the  lower  middle  classes,  became  the  type  of  Con 
gressman;  the  language  used  became  increasingly  Hindustani,  or  some 
times  the  language  of  the  province  where  the  session  was  held,  as  many 

66 


of  the  delegates  did  not  understand  English,  and  there  was  also  a  grow 
ing  prejudice  against  using  a  foreign  language  in  our  national  work; 
and  a  new  life  and  enthusiasm  and  earnestness  became  evident  in  Con 
gress  gatherings. 

On  our  way  back  from  the  Calcutta  Special  Congress  I  accompanied 
Gandhi ji  to  Santiniketan  on  a  visit  to  Rabindranath  Tagore  and  his 
most  lovable  elder  brother,  "Boro  Dada."  We  spent  some  days  there, 
and  I  remember  C  F.  Andrews'  giving  me  some  books  which  inter 
ested  and  influenced  me  greatly.  They  dealt  with  the  economic  aspects 
of  imperialism  in  Africa.  One  of  these  books — Morell's  Elac\  Mans 
Burden — moved  me  greatly. 

About  this  time  or  a  little  later,  C.  F.  Andrews  wrote  a  pamphlet 
advocating  independence  for  India.  I  think  it  was  called  Independence 
— the  Immediate  Need.  This  was  a  brilliant  essay  based  on  some  of 
Seeley's  writings  on  India,  and  it  seemed  to  me  not  only  to  make  out 
an  unanswerable  case  for  independence  but  also  to  mirror  the  inmost 
recesses  of  our  hearts.  The  deep  urge  that  moved  us  and  our  half- 
formed  desires  seemed  to  take  clear  shape  in  his  simple  and  earnest 
language.  There  was  no  economic  background  or  socialism  in  what 
he  had  written;  it  was  nationalism  pure  and  simple,  the  feeling  of  the 
humiliation  of  India  and  a  fierce  desire  to  be  rid  of  it  and  to  put  an 
end  to  our  continuing  degradation.  It  was  wonderful  that  C.  F.  An 
drews,  a  foreigner  and  one  belonging  to  the  dominant  race  in  India, 
should  echo  that  cry  of  our  inmost  being.  Nonco-operation  was  essen 
tially,  as  Seeley  had  said  long  ago,  "the  notion  that  it  was  shameful 
to  assist  the  foreigner  in  maintaining  his  domination."  And  Andrews 
had  written  that  "the  only  way  of  self-recovery  was  through  some  vital 
upheaval  from  within.  The  explosive  force  needed  for  such  an  upheaval 
must  be  generated  within  the  soul  of  India  itself.  It  could  not  come 
through  loans  and  gifts  and  grants  and  concessions  and  proclamations 
from  without.  It  must  come  from  within.  .  .  .  Therefore,  it  was  with 
the  intense  joy  of  mental  and  spiritual  deliverance  from  an  intolerable 
burden  that  I  watched  the  actual  outbreak  of  such  an  inner  explosive 
force,  as  that  which  actually  occurred  when  Mahatma  Gandhi  spoke 
to  the  heart  of  India  the  mantram — 'Be  free!  Be  slaves  no  more!' — and 
the  heart  of  India  responded.  In  a  sudden  movement  her  fetters  began 
to  be  loosened,  and  the  pathway  of  freedom  was  opened." 

The  next  three  months  witnessed  the  advancing  tide  of  nonco- 
operation  all  over  the  country.  The  appeal  for  a  boycott  of  the  elec 
tions  to  the  new  legislatures  was  remarkably  successful.  It  did  not  and 

67 


could  not  prevent  everybody  from  going  to  these  councils  and  thus 
keep  the  seats  vacant.  Even  a  handful  of  voters  could  elect,  or  there 
might  be  an  unopposed  election.  But  the  great  majority  of  voters  ab 
stained  from  voting,  and  all  who  cared  for  the  vehemently  expressed 
sense  of  the  country  refrained  from  standing  as  candidates. 

A  few  old  leaders,  however,  dropped  out  of  the  Congress  after  Cal 
cutta,  and  among  these  a  popular  and  well-known  figure  was  that  of 
Mr.  M.  A.  Jinnah.  Sarojini  Naidu  had  called  him  the  "Ambassador  of 
Hindu-Moslem  unity,"  and  he  had  been  largely  responsible  in  the  past 
for  bringing  the  Moslem  League  nearer  to  the  Congress.  But  the  new 
developments  in  the  Congress — nonco-operation  and  the  new  consti 
tution,  which  made  it  more  of  a  popular  and  mass  organization — were 
thoroughly  disapproved  of  by  him.  He  disagreed  on  political  grounds, 
but  it  was  not  politics  in  the  main  that  kept  him  away.  There  were 
still  many  people  in  the  Congress  who  were  politically  even  less  ad 
vanced  than  he  was.  But  temperamentally  he  did  not  fit  in  at  all  with 
the  new  Congress.  He  felt  completely  out  of  his  element  in  the  \hadi- 
clad  crowd  demanding  speeches  in  Hindustani.  The  enthusiasm  of 
the  people  outside  struck  him  as  mob  hysteria.  There  was  as  much 
difference  between  him  and  the  Indian  masses  as  between  Savile  Row 
and  Bond  Street  and  the  Indian  village  with  its  mud  huts.  He  sug 
gested  once  privately  that  only  matriculates  should  be  taken  into  the 
Congress.  I  do  not  know  if  he  was  serious  in  making  this  remarkable 
suggestion,  but  it  was  in  harmony  with  his  general  outlook.  So  he 
drifted  away  from  the  Congress  and  became  a  rather  solitary  figure 
in  Indian  politics.  Later,  unhappily,  the  old  Ambassador  of  Unity  asso 
ciated  himself  with  the  most  reactionary  elements  in  Moslem  com- 
munalism. 

The  Moderates  or  Liberals  had,  of  course,  nothing  to  do  with  the 
Congress.  They  not  only  kept  away  from  it;  they  merged  themselves 
in  the  Government,  became  ministers  and  high  officials  under  the  new 
scheme,  and  helped  in  fighting  nonco-operation  and  the  Congress. 

And  yet  the  Liberals  were  far  from  happy.  It  is  not  a  pleasant  ex 
perience  to  be  cut  off  from  one's  own  people,  to  sense  hostility  even 
though  one  may  not  see  it  or  hear  it.  A  mass  upheaval  is  not  kind  to 
the  nonconformists,  though  Gandhiji's  repeated  warnings  made  nonco- 
operation  far  milder  and  gentler  to  its  opponents  than  it  otherwise 
would  have  been.  But  even  so,  the  very  atmosphere  stifled  those  who 
opposed  the  movement,  just  as  it  invigorated  and  filled  with  life  and 
energy  those  who  supported  it.  Mass  upheavals  and  real  revolutionary 

68 


movements  always  have  this  double  effect:  they  encourage  and  bring 
out  the  personality  of  those  who  constitute  the  masses  or  side  with 
them,  and  at  the  same  time  they  suppress  psychologically  and  stifle 
those  who  differ  from  them. 

This  was  the  reason  why  some  people  complained  that  nonco-opera- 
tion  was  intolerant  and  tended  to  introduce  a  dead  uniformity  of 
opinion  and  action.  There  was  truth  in  this  complaint,  but  the  truth 
lay  in  this,  that  nonco-operation  was  a  mass  movement,  and  it  was  led 
by  a  man  of  commanding  personality  who  inspired  devotion  in  India's 
millions.  A  more  vital  truth,  however,  lay  in  its  effect  on  the  masses. 
There  was  a  tremendous  feeling  of  release  there,  a  throwing-off  of  a 
great  burden,  a  new  sense  of  freedom.  The  fear  that  had  crushed  them 
retired  into  the  background,  and  they  straightened  their  backs  and 
raised  their  heads. 

Many  of  us  who  worked  for  the  Congress  program  lived  in  a  kind 
of  intoxication  during  the  year  1921.  We  were  full  of  excitement  and 
optimism  and  a  buoyant  enthusiasm.  We  sensed  the  happiness  of  a 
person  crusading  for  a  cause.  We  were  not  troubled  with  doubts  or 
hesitation;  our  path  seemed  to  lie  clear  in  front  of  us,  and  we  marched 
ahead,  lifted  up  by  the  enthusiasm  of  others,  and  helping  to  push  on 
others.  We  worked  hard,  harder  than  we  had  ever  done  before,  for  we 
knew  that  the  conflict  with  the  Government  would  come  soon,  and  we 
wanted  to  do  as  much  as  possible  before  we  were  removed. 

Above  all,  we  had  a  sense  of  freedom  and  a  pride  in  that  freedom. 
The  old  feeling  of  oppression  and  frustration  was  completely  gone. 
There  was  no  more  whispering,  no  round-about  legal  phraseology  to 
avoid  getting  into  trouble  with  the  authorities.  We  said  what  we  felt 
and  shouted  it  out  from  the  housetops.  What  did  we  care  for  the  con 
sequences?  Prison?  We  looked  forward  to  it;  that  would  help  our 
cause  still  further.  The  innumerable  spies  and  secret-service  men  who 
used  to  surround  us  and  follow  us  about  became  rather  pitiable  indi 
viduals  as  there  was  nothing  secret  for  them  to  discover.  All  our  cards 
were  always  on  the  table. 

We  had  not  only  a  feeling  of  satisfaction  at  doing  effective  political 
work  which  was  changing  the  face  of  India  before  our  eyes  and,  as  we 
believed,  bringing  Indian  freedom  very  near,  but  also  an  agreeable 
sense  of  moral  superiority  over  our  opponents,  in  regard  to  both  our 
goal  and  our  methods.  We  were  proud  of  our  leader  and  of  the  unique 
method  he  had  evolved,  and  often  we  indulged  in  fits  of  self-righteous- 

69 


ness.  In  the  midst  of  strife,  and  while  we  ourselves  encouraged  that 
strife,  we  had  a  sense  of  inner  peace. 

As  our  morale  grew,  that  of  the  Government  went  down.  They  did 
not  understand  what  was  happening;  it  seemed  that  the  old  world 
they  knew  in  India  was  toppling  down.  There  was  a  new  aggressive 
spirit  abroad  and  self-reliance  and  fearlessness,  and  the  great  prop  of 
British  rule  in  India — prestige — was  visibly  wilting.  Repression  in  a 
small  way  only  strengthened  the  movement,  and  the  Government  hesi 
tated  for  long  before  it  would  take  action  against  the  big  leaders.  It 
did  not  know  what  the  consequences  might  be.  Was  the  Indian  Army 
reliable?  Would  the  police  carry  out  orders?  As  Lord  Reading,  the 
Viceroy,  said  in  December  1921,  they  were  "puzzled  and  perplexed." 

The  nerves  of  many  a  British  official  began  to  give  way.  The  strain 
was  great.  There  was  this  ever-growing  opposition  and  spirit  of  de 
fiance  which  overshadowed  official  India  like  a  vast  monsoon  cloud, 
and  yet  because  of  its  peaceful  methods  it  offered  no  handle,  no  grip, 
no  opportunity  for  forcible  suppression.  The  average  Englishman  did 
not  believe  in  the  bona  fides  of  nonviolence;  he  thought  that  all  this 
was  camouflage,  a  cloak  to  cover  some  vast  secret  design  which  would 
burst  out  in  violent  upheaval  one  day.  Nurtured  from  childhood  in  the 
widespread  belief  that  the  East  is  a  mysterious  place,  and  in  its  bazaars 
and  narrow  lanes  secret  conspiracies  are  being  continually  hatched,  the 
Englishman  can  seldom  think  straight  on  matters  relating  to  these 
lands  of  supposed  mystery.  He  never  makes  an  attempt  to  understand 
that  somewhat  obvious  and  very  unmysterious  person,  the  Easterner. 
He  keeps  well  away  from  him,  gets  his  ideas  about  him  from  tales 
abounding  in  spies  and  secret  societies,  and  then  allows  his  imagina 
tion  to  run  riot.  So  it  was  in  the  Punjab  early  in  April  1919,  when  a 
sudden  fear  overwhelmed  the  authorities  and  the  English  people  gen 
erally,  made  them  see  danger  everywhere,  a  widespread  rising,  a  second 
mutiny  with  its  frightful  massacres,  and,  in  a  blind,  instinctive  attempt 
at  self-preservation  at  any  cost,  led  them  to  that  frightfulness  of  which 
Jallianwala  and  the  Crawling  Lane  of  Amritsar  have  become  symbols 
and  bywords. 

The  year  1921  was  a  year  of  great  tension,  and  there  was  much  to 
irritate  and  annoy  and  unnerve  the  official.  What  was  actually  hap 
pening  was  bad  enough,  but  what  was  imagined  was  far  worse.  I  re 
member  an  instance  which  illustrates  this  riot  of  the  imagination.  My 
sister  Swarup's  wedding,  which  was  taking  place  at  Allahabad,  was 
fixed  for  May  10,  1921,  the  actual  date  having  been  calculated,  as  usual 

70 


on  such  occasions,  by  a  reference  to  the  Samvat  calendar,  and  an  auspi 
cious  day  chosen.  Gandhiji  and  a  number  of  leading  Congressmen,  in 
cluding  the  AH  brothers,  had  been  invited,  and,  to  suit  their  conveni 
ence,  a  meeting  of  the  Congress  Working  Committee  was  fixed  at 
Allahabad  about  that  time.  The  local  Congressmen  wanted  to  profit 
by  the  presence  of  famous  leaders  from  outside,  and  so  they  organized 
a  district  conference  on  a  big  scale,  expecting  a  large  number  of  peas 
ants  from  the  surrounding  rural  areas. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  bustle  and  excitement  in  Allahabad  on 
account  of  these  political  gatherings.  This  had  a  remarkable  effect  on 
the  nerves  of  some  people.  I  learned  one  day  through  a  barrister  friend 
that  many  English  people  were  thoroughly  upset  and  expected  some 
sudden  upheaval  in  the  city.  They  distrusted  their  Indian  servants,  and 
carried  about  revolvers  in  their  pockets.  It  was  even  said  privately  that 
the  Allahabad  Fort  was  kept  in  readiness  for  the  English  colony  to 
retire  there  in  case  of  need.  I  was  much  surprised  and  could  not  make 
out  why  anyone  should  contemplate  the  possibility  of  a  rising  in  the 
sleepy  and  peaceful  city  of  Allahabad  just  when  the  very  apostle  of 
nonviolence  was  going  to  visit  us.  Oh,  it  was  said,  May  10  (the  day 
accidentally  fixed  for  my  sister's  marriage)  was  the  anniversary  of  the 
outbreak  of  the  Mutiny  at  Meerut  in  1857,  and  this  was  going  to  be 
celebrated! 

Gandhiji  was  continually  laying  stress  on  the  religious  and  spiritual 
side  of  the  movement.  His  religion  was  not  dogmatic,  but  it  did  mean 
a  definitely  religious  outlook  on  life,  and  the  whole  movement  was 
strongly  influenced  by  this  and  took  on  a  revivalist  character  so  far  as 
the  masses  were  concerned.  The  great  majority  of  Congress  workers 
naturally  tried  to  model  themselves  after  their  leader  and  even  repeated 
his  language.  And  yet  Gandhiji's  leading  colleagues  in  the  Working 
Committee— my  father,  Deshbandhu  Das,  Lala  Lajpat  Rai,  and  others 
—were  not  men  of  religion  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  and 
they  considered  political  problems  on  the  political  plane  only.  In  their 
public  utterances  they  did  not  bring  in  religion.  But  whatever  they  said 
had  far  less  influence  than  the  force  of  their  personal  example— had 
they  not  given  up  a  great  deal  that  the  world  values  and  taken  to 
simpler  ways  of  living?  This  in  itself  was  taken  as  a  sign  of  religion 
and  helped  in  spreading  the  atmosphere  of  revivalism. 

I  used  to  be  troubled  sometimes  at  the  growth  of  this  religious  ele 
ment  in  our  politics,  both  on  the  Hindu  and  the  Moslem  side.  I  did  not 
like  it  at  all.  Much  that  Moulvies  and  Maulanas  and  Swamis  and  the 


like  said  in  their  public  addresses  seemed  to  me  most  unfortunate. 
Their  history  and  sociology  and  economics  appeared  to  me  all  wrong, 
and  the  religious  twist  that  was  given  to  everything  prevented  all  clear 
thinking.  Even  some  o£  Gandhiji's  phrases  sometimes  jarred  upon 
me — thus  his  frequent  reference  to  Rama  Raj  as  a  golden  age  which 
was  to  return.  But  I  was  powerless  to  intervene,  and  I  consoled  myself 
with  the  thought  that  Gandhi] i  used  the  words  because  they  were  well 
known  and  understood  by  the  masses.  He  had  an  amazing  knack  of 
reaching  the  heart  of  the  people. 

But  I  did  not  worry  myself  much  over  these  matters.  I  was  too  full 
of  my  work  and  the  progress  of  our  movement  to  care  for  such  trifles, 
as  I  thought  at  the  time  they  were.  A  vast  movement  had  all  sorts  and 
kinds  of  people  in  it,  and,  so  long  as  our  main  direction  was  correct,  a 
few  eddies  and -backwaters  did  not  matter.  As  for  Gandhiji  himself,  he 
was  a  very  difficult  person  to  understand;  sometimes  his  language  was 
almost  incomprehensible  to  an  average  modern.  But  we  felt  that  we 
knew  him  quite  well  enough  to  realize  that  he  was  a  great  and  unique 
man  and  a  glorious  leader,  and,  having  put  our  faith  in  him,  we  gave 
him  an  almost  blank  check,  for  the  time  being  at  least.  Often  we 
discussed  his  fads  and  peculiarities  among  ourselves  and  said,  half- 
humorously,  that  when  Su/araj  came  these  fads  must  not  be  encouraged. 

Many  of  us,  however,  were  too  much  under  his  influence  in  political 
and  other  matters  to  remain  wholly  immune  even  in  the  sphere  of 
religion.  Where  a  direct  attack  might  not  have  succeeded,  many  an 
indirect  approach  went  a  long  way  to  undermine  the  defenses.  The 
outward  ways  of  religion  did  not  appeal  to  me,  and  above  all  I  disliked 
the  exploitation  of  the  people  by  the  so-called  men  of  religion,  but  still 
I  toned  down  toward  it.  I  came  nearer  to  a  religious  frame  of  mind  in 
1921  than  at  any  other  time  since  my  early  boyhood.  Even  so  I  did  not 
come  very  near. 

What  I  admired  was  the  moral  and  ethical  side  of  our  movement 
and  of  Satyagraha.  I  did  not  give  an  absolute  allegiance  to  the  doctrine 
of  nonviolence  or  accept  it  forever,  but  it  attracted  me  more  and  more, 
and  the  belief  grew  upon  me  that,  situated  as  we  were  in  India  and 
with  our  background  and  traditions,  it  was  the  right  policy  for  us. 
The  spiritualization  of  politics,  using  the  word  not  in  its  narrow  reli 
gious  sense,  seemed  to  me  a  fine  idea.  A  worthy  end  should  have 
worthy  means  leading  up  to  it.  That  seemed  not  only  a  good  ethical 
doctrine  but  sound,  practical  politics,  for  the  means  that  are  not  good 
often  defeat  the  end  in  view  and  raise  new  problems  and  difficulties. 


And  then  it  seemed  so  unbecoming,  so  degrading  to  the  self-respect 
of  an  individual  or  a  nation  to  submit  to  such  means,  to  go  through 
the  mire.  How  can  one  escape  being  sullied  by  it?  How  can  we  march 
ahead  swiftly  and  with  dignity  if  we  stoop  or  crawl? 

Such  were  my  thoughts  then.  And  the  nonco-operation  movement 
offered  me  what  I  wanted— the  goal  of  national  freedom  and  (as  I 
thought)  the  ending  of  the  exploitation  of  the  underdog,  and  the  means 
which  satisfied  my  moral  sense  and  gave  me  a  sense  of  personal  free 
dom.  So  great  was  this  personal  satisfaction  that  even  a  possibility  of 
failure  did  not  count  for  much,  for  such  failure  could  only  be  tem 
porary.  I  did  not  understand  or  feel  drawn  to  the  metaphysical  part 
of  the  Bhagavad  Gita,  but  I  liked  to  read  the  verses — recited  every  eve 
ning  in  Gandhij i's  ashrama  prayers — which  say  what  a  man  should  be 
like:  Calm  of  purpose,  serene  and  unmoved,  doing  his  job  and  not 
caring  overmuch  for  the  result  of  his  action.  Not  being  very  calm  or 
detached  myself,  I  suppose,  this  ideal  appealed  to  me  all  the  more. 


XIII 

FIRST  IMPRISONMENT 

NINETEEN  TWENTY-ONE  was  an  extraordinary  year  for  us.  There  was  a 
strange  mixture  of  nationalism  and  politics  and  religion  and  mysti 
cism  and  fanaticism.  Behind  all  this  was  agrarian  trouble  and,  in  the 
big  cities,  a  rising  working-class  movement.  Nationalism  and  a  vague 
but  intense  countrywide  idealism  sought  to  bring  together  all  these 
various,  and  sometimes  mutually  contradictory,  discontents,  and  suc 
ceeded  to  a  remarkable  degree.  And  yet  this  nationalism  itself  was  a 
composite  force,  and  behind  it  could  be  distinguished  a  Hindu  nation 
alism,  a  Moslem  nationalism  partly  looking  beyond  the  frontiers  of 
India,  and,  what  was  more  in  consonance  with  the  spirit  of  the  times, 
an  Indian  nationalism.  For  the  time  being  they  overlapped  and  all 
pulled  together.  It  was  Hindu-Muslaman  fy  jai  everywhere.  It  was 
remarkable  how  Gandhiji  seemed  to  cast  a  spell  on  all  classes  and 
groups  of  people  and  drew  them  into  one  motley  crowd  struggling 
in  one  direction.  He  became,  indeed  (to  use  a  phrase  which  has  been 
applied  to  another  leader),  "a  symbolic  expression  of  the  confused 
desires  of  the  people." 

73 


Even  more  remarkable  was  the  fact  that  these  desires  and  passions 
were  relatively  free  from  hatred  of  the  alien  rulers  against  whom  they 
were  directed.  Nationalism  is  essentially  an  anti-feeling,  and  it  feeds 
and  fattens  on  hatred  and  anger  against  other  national  groups,  and 
especially  against  the  foreign  rulers  of  a  subject  country.  There  was 
certainly  this  hatred  and  anger  in  India  in  1921  against  the  British,  but, 
in  comparison  with  other  countries  similarly  situated,  it  was  extraor 
dinarily  little.  Undoubtedly  this  was  due  to  Gandhiji's  insistence  on 
the  implications  of  nonviolence.  It  was  also  due  to  the  feeling  of  re 
lease  and  power  that  came  to  the  whole  country  with  the  inaugura 
tion  of  the  movement  and  the  widespread  belief  in  success  in  the  near 
future.  Why  be  angry  and  full  of  hate  when  we  were  doing  so  well 
and  were  likely  to  win  through  soon  ?  We  felt  that  we  could  afford  to 
be  generous. 

We  were  not  so  generous  in  our  hearts,  though  our  actions  were 
circumspect  and  proper,  toward  the  handful  of  our  own  countrymen 
who  took  sides  against  us  and  opposed  the  national  movement.  It  was 
not  a  question  of  hatred  or  anger,  for  they  carried  no  weight  whatever 
and  we  could  ignore  them.  But  deep  within  us  was  contempt  for  their 
weakness  and  opportunism  and  betrayal  of  national  honor  and  self- 
respect. 

So  we  went  on,  vaguely  but  intensely,  the  exhilaration  of  action  hold 
ing  us  in  its  grip.  But  about  our  goal  there  was  an  entire  absence  of 
clear  thinking.  It  seems  surprising  now,  how  completely  we  ignored 
the  theoretical  aspects,  the  philosophy  of  our  movement  as  well  as  the 
definite  objective  that  we  should  have.  Of  course  we  all  grew  eloquent 
about  Swaraj,  but  each  one  of  us  probably  interpreted  the  word  in  his 
or  her  own  way.  To  most  of  the  younger  men  it  meant  political  inde 
pendence,  or  something  like  it,  and  a  democratic  form  of  government, 
and  we  said  so  in  our  public  utterances.  Many  of  us  also  thought  that 
inevitably  this  would  result  in  a  lessening  of  the  burdens  that  crushed 
the  workers  and  the  peasantry.  But  it  was  obvious  that  to  most  of  our 
leaders  Swaraj  meant  something  much  less  than  independence.  Gand- 
hiji  was  delightfully  vague  on  the  subject,  and  he  did  not  encourage 
clear  thinking  about  it  either.  But  he  always  spoke,  vaguely  but  defi 
nitely,  in  terms  of  the  underdog,  and  this  brought  great  comfort  to 
many  of  us,  although,  at  the  same  time,  he  was  full  of  assurances  to 
the  top  dog  also.  Gandhiji's  stress  was  never  on  the  intellectual  ap 
proach  to  a  problem  but  on  character  and  piety.  He  did  succeed  amaz 
ingly  in  giving  backbone  and  character  to  the  Indian  people, 

74 


It  was  this  extraordinary  sti£Fening-up  of  the  masses  that  filled  us 
with  confidence.  A  demoralized,  backward,  and  broken-up  people 
suddenly  straightened  their  backs  and  lifted  their  heads  and  took  part 
in  disciplined,  joint  action  on  a  countrywide  scale.  This  action  itself, 
we  felt,  would  give  irresistible  power  to  the  masses.  We  ignored  the 
necessity  of  thought  behind  the  action;  we  forgot  that  without  a  con 
scious  ideology  and  objective  the  energy  and  enthusiasm  of  the  masses 
must  end  largely  in  smoke.  To  some  extent  the  revivalist  element  in 
our  movement  carried  us  on;  a  feeling  that  nonviolence  as  conceived 
for  political  or  economic  movements  or  for  righting  wrongs  was  a  new 
message  which  our  people  were  destined  to  give  to  the  world.  We  be 
came  victims  to  the  curious  illusion  of  all  peoples  and  all  nations  that 
in  some  way  they  are  a  chosen  race.  Nonviolence  was  the  moral  equiv 
alent  of  war  and  of  all  violent  struggle.  It  was  not  merely  an  ethical 
alternative,  but  it  was  effective  also.  Few  of  us,  I  think,  accepted  Gand- 
hiji's  old  ideas  about  machinery  and  modern  civilization.  We  thought 
that  even  he  looked  upon  them  as  Utopian  and  as  largely  inapplicable 
to  modern  conditions.  Certainly  most  of  us  were  not  prepared  to  reject 
the  achievements  of  modern  civilization,  although  we  may  have  felt 
that  some  variation  to  suit  Indian  conditions  was  possible.  Personally, 
I  have  always  felt  attracted  toward  big  machinery  and  fast  traveling. 
Still,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Gandhi  ji's  ideology  influenced  many 
people  and  made  them  critical  of  the  machine  and  all  its  consequences. 
So,  while  some  looked  to  the  future,  others  looked  back  to  the  past. 
And,  curiously,  both  felt  that  the  joint  action  they  were  indulging  in 
was  worth  while,  and  this  made  it  easy  to  bear  sacrifice  and  face  self- 
denial. 

I  became  wholly  absorbed  and  wrapped  in  the  movement,  and  large 
numbers  of  other  people  did  likewise.  I  gave  up  all  my  other  associa 
tions  and  contacts,  old  friends,  books,  even  newspapers,  except  in  so  far 
as  they  dealt  with  the  work  in  hand.  I  had  kept  up  till  then  some  read 
ing  of  current  books  and  had  tried  to  follow  the  developments  of 
world  affairs.  But  there  was  no  time  for  this  now.  In  spite  of  the 
strength  of  my  family  bonds,  I  almost  forgot  my  family,  my  wife,  my 
daughter.  It  was  only  long  afterward  that  I  realized  what  a  burden 
and  a  trial  I  must  have  been  to  them  in  those  days,  and  what  amazing 
patience  and  tolerance  my  wife  had  shown  toward  me.  I  lived  in  offices 
and  committee  meetings  and  crowds.  "Go  to  the  villages"  was  the 
slogan,  and  we  trudged  many  a  mile  across  fields  and  visited  distant 
villages  and  addressed  peasant  meetings.  I  experienced  the  thrill  of 

75 


mass  feeling,  the  power  o£  influencing  the  mass.  I  began  to  understand 
a  little  the  psychology  of  the  crowd,  the  difference  between  the  city 
masses  and  the  peasantry,  and  I  felt  at  home  in  the  dust  and  discom 
fort,  the  pushing  and  jostling  of  large  gatherings,  though  their  want 
of  discipline  often  irritated  me.  Since  those  days  I  have  sometimes  had 
to  face  hostile  and  angry  crowds,  worked  up  to  a  state  when  a  spark 
would  light  a  flame,  and  I  found  that  that  early  experience  and  the 
confidence  it  begot  in  me  stood  me  in  good  stead.  Always  I  went 
straight  to  the  crowd  and  trusted  it,  and  so  far  I  have  always  had 
courtesy  and  appreciation  from  it,  even  though  there  was  no  agree 
ment.  But  crowds  are  fickle,  and  the  future  may  have  different  experi 
ences  in  store  for  me. 

I  took  to  the  crowd,  and  the  crowd  took  to  me,  and  yet  I  never  lost 
myself  in  it;  always  I  felt  apart  from  it.  From  my  separate  mental 
perch  I  looked  at  it  critically,  and  I  never  ceased  to  wonder  how  I,  who 
was  so  different  in  every  way  from  those  thousands  who  surrounded 
me,  different  in  habits,  in  desires,  in  mental  and  spiritual  outlook, 
had  managed  to  gain  good  will  and  a  measure  of  confidence  from 
these  people.  Was  it  because  they  took  me  for  something  other  than  I 
was?  Would  they  bear  with  me  when  they  knew  me  better?  Was  I 
gaining  their  good  will  under  false  pretenses  ?  I  tried  to  be  frank  and 
straightforward  to  them;  I  even  spoke  harshly  to  them  sometimes  and 
criticized  many  of  their  pet  beliefs  and  customs,  but  still  they  put  up 
with  me.  And  yet  I  could  not  get  rid  of  the  idea  that  their  affection 
was  meant  not  for  me  as  I  was,  but  for  some  fanciful  image  of  me  that 
they  had  formed.  How  long  could  that  false  image  endure?  And  why 
should  it  be  allowed  to  endure?  And,  when  it  fell  down  and  they  saw 
the  reality,  what  then? 

I  am  vain  enough  in  many  ways,  but  there  could  be  no  question  of 
vanity  with  these  crowds  of  simple  folk.  There  was  no  posing  about 
them,  no  vulgarity,  as  in  the  case  of  many  of  us  of  the  middle  classes 
who  consider  ourselves  their  betters.  They  were  dull  certainly,  unin 
teresting  individually;  but  in  the  mass  they  produced  a  feeling  of  over 
whelming  pity  and  a  sense  of  ever-impending  tragedy. 

Very  different  were  our  conferences  where  our  chosen  workers,  in 
cluding  myself,  performed  on  the  platform.  There  was  sufficient  posing 
there  and  no  lack  of  vulgarity  in  our  flamboyant  addresses.  All  of  us 
must  have  been  to  some  extent  guilty  of  this,  but  some  of  the  minor 
Khilafat  leaders  probably  led  the  rest.  It  is  not  easy  to  behave  naturally 
on  a  platform  before  a  large  audience,  and  few  of  us  had  previous 


experience  of  such  publicity.  So  we  tried  to  look  as  we  imagined 
leaders  should  look,  thoughtful  and  serious,  with  no  trace  of  levity  or 
frivolity.  When  we  walked  or  talked  or  smiled,  we  were  conscious 
of  thousands  of  eyes  staring  at  us  and  we  reacted  accordingly.  Our 
speeches  were  often  very  eloquent  but,  equally  often,  singularly  point 
less.  It  is  difficult  to  see  oneself  as  others  see  one.  And  so,  unable  to 
criticize  myself,  I  took  to  watching  carefully  the  ways  of  others,  and  I 
found  considerable  amusement  in  this  occupation.  And  then  the  ter 
rible  thought  would  strike  me  that  I  might  perhaps  appear  equally 
ludicrous  to  others. 

Right  through  the  year  1921  individual  Congress  workers   were 
being  arrested  and  sentenced,  but  there  were  no  mass  arrests.  The  All 
brothers  had  received  long  sentences  for  inciting  the  Indian  Army  to 
disaffection.  Their  words,  for  which  they  had  been  sentenced,  were 
repeated  at  hundreds  of  platforms  by  thousands  of  persons.  I  was 
threatened  in  the  summer  with  proceedings  for  sedition  because  of 
some  speeches  I  had  delivered.  No  such  step,  however,  was  taken  then. 
The  end  of  the  year  brought  matters  to  a  head.  The  Prince  of  Wales 
was  coming  to  India,  and  the  Congress  had  proclaimed  a  boycott  of  all 
the  functions  in  connection  with  his  visit.  Toward  the  end  of  Novem 
ber  the  Congress  volunteers  in  Bengal'  were  declared  illegal,  and  this 
was  followed  by  a  similar  declaration  for  the  United  Provinces.  Desh- 
bandhu  Das  gave  a  stirring  message  to  Bengal:  "I  feel  the  handcuffs  on 
my  wrists  and  the  weight  of  iron  chains  on  my  body.  It  is  the  agony 
of  bondage.  The  whole  of  India  is  a  vast  prison.  The  work  of  the  Con 
gress  must  be  carried  on.  What  matters  it  whether  I  am  taken  or  left? 
What  matters  it  whether  I  am  dead  or  alive?"  In  the  United  Provinces 
we  took  up  the  challenge  and  not  only  announced  that  our  volunteer 
organization  would  continue  to  function,  but  published  lists  of  names 
of  volunteers  in  the  daily  newspapers.  The  first  list  was  headed  by  my 
father's  name.  He  was  not  a  volunteer  but,  simply  for  the  purpose  of 
defying  the  Government  order,  he  joined  and  gave  his  name.  Early  in 
December,  a  few  days  before  the  Prince  came  to  our  province,  mass 
arrests  began. 

We  knew  that  matters  had  at  last  come  to  a  head;  the  inevitable 
conflict  between  the  Congress  and  the  Government  was  about  to  break 
out.  Prison  was  still  an  unknown  place,  the  idea  of  going  there  still  a 
novelty.  I  was  sitting  rather  late  one  day  in  the  Congress  office  at  Alla 
habad  trying  to  clear  up  arrears  of  work.  An  excited  clerk  told  me  that 
the  police  had  come  with  a  search  warrant  and  were  surrounding  the 

77 


office  building.  I  was,  of  course,  a  little  excited  also,  for  it  was  my  first 
experience  of  the  kind,  but  the  desire  to  show  off  was  strong,  the  wish 
to  appear  perfectly  cool  and  collected,  unaffected  by  the  comings  and 
goings  of  the  police.  So  I  asked  a  clerk  to  accompany  the  police  officer 
in  his  search  round  the  office  rooms  and  insisted  on  the  rest  of  the 
staff  carrying  on  their  usual  work  and  ignoring  the  police.  A  little  later 
a  friend  and  a  colleague,  who  had  been  arrested  just  outside  the  office, 
came  to  me,  accompanied  by  a  policeman,  to  bid  me  good-by.  I  was  so 
full  of  the  conceit  that  I  must  treat  these  novel  occurrences  as  every 
day  happenings  that  I  treated  my  colleague  in  a  most  unfeeling  man 
ner.  Casually  I  asked  him  and  the  policeman  to  wait  till  I  had  finished 
the  letter  I  was  writing.  Soon  news  came  of  other  arrests  in  the  city. 
I  decided  at  last  to  go  home  and  see  what  was  happening  there.  I 
found  the  inevitable  police  searching  part  of  the  large  house  and 
learned  that  they  had  come  to  arrest  both  father  and  me. 

Nothing  that  we  could  have  done  would  have  fitted  in  so  well  with 
our  program  of  boycotting  the  Prince's  visit.  Wherever  he  was  taken 
he  was  met  with  hartals  and  deserted  streets.  Allahabad,  when  he 
came,  seemed  to  be  a  city  of  the  dead;  Calcutta,  a  few  days  later,  sud 
denly  put  a  temporary  stop  to  all  the  activities  of  a  great  city.  It  was 
hard  on  the  Prince  of  Wales;  he  was  not  to  blame,  and  there  was  no 
feeling  against  him  whatever.  But  the  Government  of  India  had  tried 
to  exploit  his  personality  to  prop  up  their  decaying  prestige. 

There  was  an  orgy  of  arrests  and  convictions,  especially  in  the 
United  Provinces  and  in  Bengal.  All  the  prominent  Congress  leaders 
and  workers  in  these  provinces  were  arrested,  and  ordinary  volunteers 
by  the  thousand  went  to  prison.  They  were,  at  first,  largely  city  men 
and  there  seemed  to  be  an  inexhaustible  supply  of  volunteers  for  prison. 
The  Provincial  Congress  Committee  was  arrested  en  bloc  (55  mem 
bers)  as  they  were  actually  holding  a  committee  meeting.  Many  people, 
who  had  so  far  taken  no  part  in  any  Congress  or  political  activity, 
were  carried  away  by  the  wave  of  enthusiasm  and  insisted  on  being 
arrested.  There  were  cases  of  Government  clerks,  returning  from  their 
offices  in  the  evening,  being  swept  away  by  this  current  and  landing 
in  jail  instead  of  their  homes.  Young  men  and  boys  would  crowd  in 
side  the  police  trucks  and  refuse  to  come  out.  Every  evening  we  could 
hear  from  inside  the  jail,  truck  after  truck  arriving  outside  heralded 
by  our  slogans  and  shouts.  The  jails  were  crowded  and  the  jail  officials 
were  at  their  wits'  ends  at  this  extraordinary  phenomenon.  It  happened 
sometimes  that  a  police  truck  would  bring,  according  to  the  warrant 


accompanying  it,  a  certain  number  of  prisoners — no  names  were  or 
could  be  mentioned.  Actually,  a  larger  number  than  that  mentioned 
would  emerge  from  the  truck,  and  the  jail  officials  did  not  know  how 
to  meet  this  novel  situation.  There  was  nothing  in  the  Jail  Manual 
about  it. 

Gradually  the  Government  gave  up  the  policy  of  indiscriminate  ar 
rests;  only  noted  workers  were  picked  out.  Gradually  also  the  first  flush 
of  enthusiasm  of  the  people  cooled  down,  and,  owing  to  the  absence  in 
prison  of  all  the  trusted  workers,  a  feeling  of  indecision  and  helpless 
ness  spread.  But  the  change  was  superficial  only;  there  was  still 
thunder  in  the  air,  and  the  atmosphere  was  tense  and  pregnant  with 
revolutionary  possibilities.  During  the  months  of  December  1921  and 
January  1922  it  is  estimated  that  about  thirty  thousand  persons  were 
sentenced  to  imprisonment  in  connection  with  the  nonco-operation 
movement.  But,  though  most  of  the  prominent  men  and  workers  were 
in  prison,  the  leader  of  the  whole  struggle,  Mahatma  Gandhi,  was  still 
out,  issuing  from  day  to  day  messages  and  directions  which  inspired 
the  people,  as  well  as  checking  many  an  undesirable  activity.  The  Gov 
ernment  had  not  touched  him  so  far,  for  they  feared  the  consequences, 
the  reactions  on  the  Indian  Army  and  the  police. 

Suddenly,  early  in  February  1922,  the  whole  scene  shifted,  and  we  in 
prison  learned,  to  our  amazement  and  consternation,  that  Gandhiji 
had  stopped  the  aggressive  aspects  of  our  struggle,  that  he  had  sus 
pended  civil  resistance.  We  read  that  this  was  because  of  what  had 
happened  near  the  village  of  Chauri  Chaura,  where  a  mob  of  villagers 
had  retaliated  on  some  policemen  by  setting  fire  to  the  police  station 
and  burning  half  a  dozen  or  so  policemen  in  it. 

We  were  angry  when  we  learned  of  this  stoppage  of  our  struggle 
at  a  time  when  we  seemed  to  be  consolidating  our  position  and  ad 
vancing  on  all  fronts.  But  our  disappointment  and  anger  in  prison 
could  do  little  good  to  anyone;  civil  resistance  stopped,  and  nonco-  • 
operation  wilted  away.  After  many  months  of  strain  and  anxiety  the 
Government  breathed  again,  and  for  the  first  time  had  the  opportunity 
of  taking  the  initiative.  A  few  weeks  later  they  arrested  Gandhiji  and 
sentenced  him  for  a  long  term  of  imprisonment. 


79 


XIV 

NONVIOLENCE  AND  THE  DOCTRINE 
OF  THE  SWORD 

THE  SUDDEN  SUSPENSION  of  our  movement  after  the  Chauri  Chaura 
incident  was  resented,  I  think,  by  almost  all  the  prominent  Congress 
leaders — other  than  Gandhiji,  of  course.  My  father  (who  was  in  jail  at 
the  time)  was  much  upset  by  it.  The  younger  people  were  naturally 
even  more  agitated.  Our  mounting  hopes  tumbled  to  the  ground,  and 
this  mental  reaction  was  to  be  expected.  What  troubled  us  even  more 
were  the  reasons  given  for  this  suspension  and  the  consequences  that 
seemed  to  flow  from  them.  Chauri  Chaura  may  have  been  and  was  a 
deplorable  occurrence  and  wholly  opposed  to  the  spirit  of  the  non 
violent  movement;  but  were  a  remote  village  and  a  mob  of  excited 
peasants  in  an  out-of-the-way  place  going  to  put  an  end,  for  some  time 
at  least,  to  our  national  struggle  for  freedom  ?  If  this  was  the  inevitable 
consequence  of  a  sporadic  act  of  violence,  then  surely  there  was  some 
thing  lacking  in  the  philosophy  and  technique  of  a  nonviolent  struggle. 
For  it  seemed  to  us  to  be  impossible  to  guarantee  against  the  occur 
rence  of  some  such  untoward  incident.  Must  we  train  the  three  hun 
dred  and  odd  millions  of  India  in  the  theory  and  practice  of  nonvio 
lent  action  before  we  could  go  forward  ?  And,  even  so,  how  many  of 
us  could  say  that  under  extreme  provocation  from  the  police  we  would 
be  able  to  remain  perfectly  peaceful?  But  even  if  we  succeeded,  what 
of  the  numerous  agents  provocateurs,  stool  pigeons,  and  the  like  who 
crept  into  our  movement  and  indulged  in  violence  themselves  or  in 
duced  others  to  do  so?  If  this  was  the  sole  condition  of  its  function, 
then  the  nonviolent  method  of  resistance  would  always  fail. 

We  had  accepted  that  method,  the  Congress  had  made  that  method 
its  "own,  because  of  a  belief  in  its  effectiveness.  Gandhiji  had  placed  it 
before  the  country  not  only  as  the  right  method  but  as  the  most  effec 
tive  one  for  our  purpose.  In  spite  of  its  negative  name  it  was  a  dynamic 
method,  the  very  opposite  of  a  meek  submission  to  a  tyrant's  will.  It 
was  not  a  coward's  refuge  from  action,  but  the  brave  man's  defiance  of 
evil  and  national  subjection.  But  what  was  the  use  of  the  bravest  and 
the  strongest  if  a  few  odd  persons — maybe  even  our  opponents  in  the 
guise  of  friends — had  the  power  to  upset  or  end  our  movement  by 
their  rash  behavior? 

Gandhiji  had  pleaded  for  the  adoption  of  the  way  of  nonviolence,  of 

80 


peaceful  nonce-operation,  with  all  the  eloquence  and  persuasive  power 
which  he  so  abundantly  possessed.  His  language  had  been  simple  and 
unadorned,  his  voice  and  appearance  cool  and  clear  and  devoid  of  all 
emotion,  but  behind  that  outward  covering  of  ice  there  was  the  heat  of 
a  blazing  fire  and  concentrated  passion,  and  the  words  he  uttered 
winged  their  way  to  the  innermost  recesses  of  our  minds  and  hearts, 
and  created  a  strange  ferment  there.  The  way  he  pointed  out  was  hard 
and  difficult,  but  it  was  a  brave  path,  and  it  seemed  to  lead  to  the 
promised  land  of  freedom.  Because  of  that  promise  we  pledged  our 
faith  and  marched  ahead.  In  a  famous  article — "The  Doctrine  of  the 
Sword" — he  had  written  in  1920: 

"I  do  believe  that  when  there  is  only  a  choice  between  cowardice  and 
violence,  I  would  advise  violence.  ...  I  would  rather  have  India  resort 
to  arms  in  order  to  defend  her  honor  than  that  she  should  in  a  cow 
ardly  manner  become  or  remain  a  helpless  victim  to  her  own  dishonor. 
But  I  believe  that  nonviolence  is  infinitely  superior  to  violence,  forgive 
ness  is  more  manly  than  punishment. 

"Forgiveness  adorns  a  soldier.  But  abstinence  is  forgiveness  only 
when  there  is  power  to  punish;  it  is  meaningless  when  it  pretends  to 
proceed  from  a  helpless  creature.  A  mouse  hardly  forgives  a  cat  when 
it  allows  itself  to  be  torn  to  pieces  by  her.  .  .  .  But  I  do  not  believe 
India  to  be  helpless,  I  do  not  believe  myself  to  be  a  helpless  crea 
ture.  .  .  . 

"Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  Strength  does  not  come  from  physi 
cal  capacity.  It  comes  from  an  indomitable  will.  .  .  . 

"I  am  not  a  visionary.  I  claim  to  be  a  practical  idealist.  The  religion 
of  nonviolence  is  not  meant  merely  for  the  Rishis  and  saints.  It  is 
meant  for  the  common  people  as  well.  Nonviolence  is  the  law  of  our 
species  as  violence  is  the  law  of  the  brute.  The  spirit  lies  dormant  in 
the  brute,  and  he  knows  no  law  but  that  of  physical  might.  The  dig 
nity  of  man  requires  obedience  to  a  higher  law — to  the  strength  of  the 
spirit. 

"I  have  therefore  ventured  to  place  before  India  the  ancient  law  of 
self-sacrifice.  For  Satyagraha  and  its  off-shoots,  nonco-operation  and 
civil  resistance,  are  nothing  but  new  names  for  the  law  of  suffering. 
The  Rishis  who  discovered  the  law  of  nonviolence  in  the  midst  of 
violence,  were  greater  geniuses  than  Newton.  They  were  themselves 
greater  warriors  than  Wellington.  Having  themselves  known  the  use 
of  arms,  they  realized  their  uselessness  and  taught  a  weary  world  that 
its  salvation  lay  not  through  violence  but  through  nonviolence. 

81 


,  "Nonviolence  in  its  dynamic  condition  means  conscious  suffering.  It 
does  not  mean  meek  submission  to  the  will  of  the  evildoer,  but  it 
means  the  putting  of  one's  whole  soul  against  the  will  of  the  tyrant. 
Working  under  this  law  of  our  being,  it  is  possible  for  a  single  individ 
ual  to  defy  the  whole  might  of  an  unjust  empire  to  save  his  honor, 
his  religion,  his  soul,  and  lay  the  foundation  for  that  empire's  fall  or 
regeneration. 

"And  so  I  am  not  pleading  for  India  to  practice  nonviolence  because 
it  is  weak.  I  want  her  to  practice  nonviolence  being  conscious  of  her 
strength  and  power.  ...  I  want  India  to  recognize  that  she  has  a  soul 
that  cannot  perish,  and  that  can  rise  triumphant  above  any  physical 
weakness  and  defy  the  physical  combination  of  a  whole  world.  .  .  . 

"I  isolate  this  nonco-operation  from  Sinn  Feinism,  for  it  is  so  con 
ceived  as  to  be  incapable  of  being  offered  side  by  side  with  violence. 
But  I  invite  even  the  school  of  violence  to  give  this  peaceful  nonco- 
operation  a  trial.  It  will  not  fail  through  its  inherent  weakness.  It  may 
fail  because  of  poverty  of  response.  Then  will  be  the  time  for  real  dan 
ger.  The  high-souled  men,  who  are  unable  to  suffer  national  humilia 
tion  any  longer,  will  want  to  vent  their  wrath.  They  will  take  to 
violence.  So  far  as  I  know,  they  must  perish  without  delivering  them 
selves  or  their  country  from  the  wrong.  If  India  takes  up  the  doctrine 
of  the  sword,  she  may  gain  momentary  victory.  Then  India  will  cease 
to  be  the  pride  of  my  heart.  I  am  wedded  to  India  because  I  owe  my 
all  to  her.  I  believe  absolutely  that  she  has  a  mission  for  the  world." 

We  were  moved  by  these  arguments,  but  for  us  and  for  the  National 
Congress  as  a  whole  the  nonviolent  method  was  not,  and  could  not  be, 
a  religion  or  an  unchallengeable  creed  or  dogma.  It  could  only  be  a 
policy  and  a  method  promising  certain  results,  and  by  those  results  it 
would  have  to  be  finally  judged.  Individuals  might  make  of  it  a  re 
ligion  or  incontrovertible  creed.  But  no  political  organization,  so  long 
as  it  remained  political,  could  do  so. 

Chauri  Chaura  and  its  consequences  made  us  examine  these  impli 
cations  of  nonviolence  as  a  method,  and  we  felt  that,  if  Gandhiji's 
argument  for  the  suspension  of  civil  resistance  was  correct,  our  op 
ponents  would  always  have  the  power  to  create  circumstances  which 
would  necessarily  result  in  our  abandoning  the  struggle.  Was  this  the 
fault  of  the  nonviolent  method  itself  or  of  Gandhiji's  interpretation  of 
it?  After  all,  he  was  the  author  and  originator  of  it,  and  who  could  be 
a  better  judge  of  what  it  was  and  what  it  was  not?  And  without  him 
where  was  our  movement? 

82 


Many  years  later,  just  before  the  1930  civil  disobedience  movement 
began,  Gandhiji,  much  to  our  satisfaction,  made  this  point  clear.  He 
stated  that  the  movement  should  not  be  abandoned  because  of  the 
occurrence  of  sporadic  acts  of  violence.  If  the  nonviolent  method  of 
struggle  could  not  function  because  of  such  almost  inevitable  happen 
ings,  then  it  was  obvious  that  it  was  not  an  ideal  method  for  all  occa 
sions,  and  this  he  was  not  prepared  to  admit.  For  him  the  method, 
being  the  right  method,  should  suit  all  circumstances  and  should  be 
able  to  function,  at  any  rate  in  a  restricted  way,  even  in  a  hostile  atmos 
phere.  Whether  this  interpretation,  which  widened  the  scope  of  non 
violent  action,  represented  an  evolution  in  his  own  mind  or  not  I  do 
not  know. 

It  may  be  that  the  decision  to  suspend  civil  resistance  in  1922  was  a 
right  one,  though  the  manner  of  doing  it  left  much  to  be  desired  and 
brought  about  a  certain  demoralization. 

It  is  possible,  however,  that  this  sudden  bottling  up  of  a  great  move 
ment  contributed  to  a  tragic  development  in  the  country.  The  drift  to 
sporadic  and  futile  violence  in  the  political  struggle  was  stopped,  but 
the  suppressed  violence  had  to  find  a  way  out,  and  in  the  following 
years  this  perhaps  aggravated  the  communal  trouble.  The  communa- 
lists  of  various  denominations,  mostly  political  reactionaries,  had  been 
forced  to  lie  low  because  of  the  overwhelming  mass  support  for  the 
nonco-operation  and  civil  disobedience  movement.  They  emerged  now 
from  their  retirement.  Many  others,  secret-service  agents  and  people 
who  sought  to  please  the  authorities  by  creating  communal  friction, 
also  worked  on  the  same  theme.  The  Moplah  rising  and  its  extraordi 
narily  cruel  suppression — what  a  horrible  thing  was  the  baking  to 
death  of  the  Moplah  prisoners  in  the  closed  railway  vans! — had  already 
given  a  handle  to  those  who  stirred  the  waters  of  communal  discord. 
It  is  just  possible  that  if  civil  resistance  had  not  been  stopped  and  the 
movement  had  been  crushed  by  Government,  there  would  have  been 
less  communal  bitterness  and  less  superfluous  energy  left  for  the  sub 
sequent  communal  riots. 

Both  my  father  and  I  had  been  sentenced  to  six  months*  imprison 
ment  on  different  charges  and  by  different  courts.  The  trials  were 
farcical,  and,  as  was  our  custom,  we  took  no  part  in  them.  It  was  easy 
enough,  of  course,  to  find  enough  material  in  our  speeches  or  other 
activities  for  a  conviction.  But  the  actual  choice  was  amusing.  Father 
was  tried  as  a  member  of  an  illegal  organization,  the  Congress  volun 
teers,  and  to  prove  this  a  form  with  his  signature  in  Hindu  was  pro- 

83 


duced.  The  signature  was  certainly  his,  but,  as  it  happened,  he  had 
hardly  ever  signed  in  Hindu  before,  and  very  few  persons  could 
recognize  his  Hindu  signature.  A  tattered  gentleman  was  then  pro 
duced  who  swore  to  the  signature.  The  man  was  quite  illiterate,  and 
he  held  the  signature  upside  down  when  he  examined  it.  My  daughter, 
aged  four  at  the  time,  had  her  first  experience  of  the  dock  during 
father's  trial,  as  he  held  her  in  his  arms  throughout. 

My  offense  was  distributing  notices  for  a  hartal.  This  was  no  offense 
under  the  law  then,  though  I  believe  it  is  one  now,  for  we  are  rapidly 
advancing  toward  Dominion  status.  However,  I  was  sentenced.  Three 
months  later  I  was  informed  in  the  prison,  where  I  was  with  my  father 
and  others,  that  some  revising  authority  had  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  I  was  wrongly  sentenced  and  I  was  to  be  discharged.  I  was  sur 
prised,  as  no  one  had  taken  any  step  on  my  behalf.  The  suspension  of 
civil  resistance  had  apparently  galvanized  the  revising  judges  into 
activity.  I  was  sorry  to  go  out,  leaving  my  father  behind. 

I  decided  to  go  almost  immediately  to  Gandhiji  in  Ahmedabad.  Be 
fore  I  arrived  there,  he  had  been  arrested,  and  my  interview  with  him 
took  place  in  Sabarmati  Prison.  I  was  present  at  his  trial.  It  was  a 
memorable  occasion,  and  those  of  us  who  were  present  are  not  likely 
ever  to  forget  it.  The  judge,  an  Englishman,  behaved  with  dignity  and 
feeling.  Gandhi ji's  statement  to  the  court  was  a  most  moving  one,  and 
we  came  away,  emotionally  stirred,  and  with  the  impress  of  his  vivid 
phrases  and  striking  images  in  our  mind. 

I  came  back  to  Allahabad.  I  felt  unhappy  and  lonely  outside  the 
prison  when  so  many  of  my  friends  and  colleagues  were  behind  prison 
bars.  I  found  that  the  Congress  organization  was  not  functioning  well, 
and  I  tried  to  put  it  straight.  In  particular  I  interested  myself  in  the 
boycott  of  foreign  cloth.  This  item  of  our  program  still  continued  in 
spite  of  the  withdrawal  of  civil  resistance.  Nearly  all  the  cloth  mer 
chants  in  Allahabad  had  pledged  themselves  not  to  import  or  purchase 
foreign  cloth,  and  had  formed  an  association  for  the  purpose.  The  rules 
of  this  association  laid  down  that  any  infringement  would  be  punished 
by  a  fine.  I  found  that  several  of  the  big  dealers  had  broken  their 
pledges  and  were  importing  foreign  cloth.  This  was  very  unfair  to 
those  who  stuck  to  their  pledges.  We  remonstrated  with  little  result, 
and  the  cloth  dealers'  association  seemed  to  be  powerless  to  take  action. 
So  we  decided  to  picket  the  shops  of  the  erring  merchants.  Even  a  hint 
of  picketing  was  enough  for  our  purpose.  Fines  were  paid,  pledges 


were  taken  afresh.  The  money  from  the  fines  went  to  the  cloth  mer 
chants'  association. 

Two  or  three  days  later  I  was  arrested,  together  with  a  number  of 
colleagues  who  had  taken  part  in  the  negotiations  with  the  merchants. 
We  were  charged  with  criminal  intimidation  and  extortion!  I  was 
further  charged  with  some  other  offenses,  including  sedition.  I  did  not 
defend  myself,  but  I  made  a  long  statement  in  court.  I  was  sentenced 
on  at  least  three  counts,  including  intimidation  and  extortion,  but  the 
sedition  charge  was  not  proceeded  with,  as  it  was  probably  considered 
that  I  had  already  got  as  much  as  I  deserved.  As  far  as  I  remember 
there  were  three  sentences,  two  of  which  were  for  eighteen  months 
and  were  concurrent.  In  all,  I  think,  I  was  sentenced  to  a  year  and  nine 
months.  That  was  my  second  sentence.  I  went  back  to  prison  after 
about  six  weeks  spent  outside  it. 


XV 
LUCKNOW  DISTRICT  JAIL 

IMPRISONMENT  FOR  POLITICAL  offenses  was  not  a  new  thing  in  the  India 
of  1921.  From  the  time  of  the  Bengal  partition  agitation  especially, 
there  had  always  been  a  continuous  stream  of  men  going  to  prison, 
sentenced  often  to  very  long  terms.  There  had  been  internments  with 
out  trial  also.  The  greatest  Indian  leader  of  the  day,  Lokamanya 
Tilak,  was  sentenced  in  his  declining  years  to  six  years'  imprisonment. 
The  Great  War  speeded  up  this  process  of  internment  and  imprison 
ment,  and  conspiracy  cases  became  frequent,  usually  resulting  in  death 
sentences  or  life  terms.  The  Ali  brothers  and  M.  Abul  Kalam  Azad 
were  among  the  wartime  internees.  Soon  after  the  war,  martial  law 
in  the  Punjab  took  a  heavy  toll,  and  large  numbers  were  sentenced  in 
conspiracy  cases  or  summary  trials.  So  political  imprisonment  had  be 
come  a  frequent  enough  occurrence  in  India,  but  so  far  it  had  not  been 
deliberately  courted.  It  had  come  in  the  course  of  a  person's  activities, 
or  perhaps  because  the  secret  police  did  not  fancy  him,  and  every  effort 
was  made  to  avoid  it  by  means  of  a  defense  in  the  law  court. 

But  still  in  1921  prison  was  an  almost  unknown  place,  and  very  few 
knew  what  happened  behind  the  grim  gates  that  swallowed  the  new 
convict.  Vaguely  we  imagined  that  its  inhabitants  were  desperate  peo- 

85 


pie  and  dangerous  criminals.  In  our  minds  the  place  was  associated 
with  isolation,  humiliation,  and  suffering,  and,  above  all,  the  fear  of 
the  unknown.  Frequent  references  to  jail-going  from  1920  onward, 
and  the  march  of  many  of  our  comrades  to  prison,  gradually  accus 
tomed  us  to  the  idea  and  took  away  the  edge  from  that  almost  involun 
tary  feeling  of  repugnance  and  reluctance.  But  no  amount  of  previous 
mental  preparation  could  prevent  the  tension  and  nervous  excitement 
that  filled  us  when  we  first  entered  the  iron  gates.  Since  those  days, 
thirteen  years  ago,  I  imagine  that  at  least  three  hundred  thousand  men 
and  women  of  India  have  entered  those  gates  for  political  offenses, 
although  often  enough  the  actual  charge  has  been  under  some  other 
section  of  the  criminal  code.  Thousands  of  these  have  gone  in  and  out 
many  a  time;  they  have  got  to  know  well  what  to  expect  inside;  they 
have  tried  to  adapt  themselves  to  the  strange  life  there,  as  far  as  one 
can  adapt  oneself  to  an  existence  full  of  abnormality  and  a  dull  suffer 
ing  and  a  dreadful  monotony.  We  grow  accustomed  to  it,  as  one  grows 
accustomed  to  almost  anything;  and  yet,  every  time  that  we  enter  those 
gates  again,  there  is  a  bit  of  the  old  excitement,  a  feeling  of  tension,  a 
quickening  of  the  pulse.  And  the  eyes  turn  back  involuntarily  to  take 
a  last  good  look  outside  at  the  greenery  and  wide  spaces,  at  people  and 
conveyances  moving  about,  at  familiar  faces  that  they  may  not  see 
again  for  a  long  time. 

My  first  term  in  jail,  which  ended  rather  suddenly  after  three 
months,  was  a  hectic  period  both  for  us  and  the  jail  staff.  The  jail 
officials  were  half  paralyzed  by  the  influx  of  the  new  type  of  convict. 
The  number  itself  of  these  newcomers,  added  to  from  day  to  day,  was 
extraordinary  and  created  an  impression  of  a  flood  which  might  sweep 
away  the  old  traditional  landmarks.  More  upsetting  still  was  the  type 
of  the  newcomer.  It  belonged  to  all  classes,  but  had  a  high  proportion 
of  the  middle  class.  All  these  classes,  however,  had  this  in  common: 
they  differed  entirely  from  the  ordinary  convict,  and  it  was  not  easy 
to  treat  them  in  the  old  way.  This  was  recognized  by  the  authorities, 
but  there  was  nothing  to  take  the  place  of  the  existing  rules;  there 
were  no  precedents  and  no  experience.  The  average  Congress  prisoner 
was  not  very  meek  and  mild,  and  even  inside  the  jail  walls  numbers 
gave  him  a  feeling  of  strength.  The  agitation  outside,  and  the  new 
interest  of  the  public  in  what  transpired  inside  the  prisons,  added  to 
this.  In  spite  of  this  somewhat  aggressive  attitude,  our  general  policy 
was  one  of  co-operation  with  the  jail  authorities.  But  for  our  help,  the 
troubles  of  the  officials  would  have  been  far  greater.  The  jailer  would 

86 


come  to  us  frequently  and  ask  us  to  visit  some  o£  the  barracks  con 
taining  our  volunteers  in  order  to  soothe  them  or  get  them  to  agree 
to  something. 

We  had  come  to  prison  of  our  own  accord,  many  of  the  volunteers 
indeed  having  pushed  their  way  in  almost  uninvited.  There  was  thus 
hardly  any  question  of  any  one  of  them  trying  to  escape.  If  he  had 
any  desire  to  go  out,  he  could  do  so  easily  by  expressing  regret  for  his 
action  or  giving  an  undertaking  that  he  would  refrain  from  such 
activity  in  future.  An  attempt  to  escape  would  only  bring  a  measure  of 
ignominy,  and  in  itself  was  tantamount  to  a  withdrawal  from  political 
activity  of  the  civil  resistance  variety.  The  superintendent  of  our  prison 
in  Lucknow  fully  appreciated  this  and  used  to  tell  the  jailer  (who  was 
a  Khan  Sahib)  that  if  he  could  succeed  in  allowing  some  of  the  Con 
gress  prisoners  to  escape  he,  the  superintendent,  would  recommend 
him  to  Government  for  the  title  of  Khan  Bahadur. 

Most  of  our  fellow  prisoners  were  kept  in  huge  barracks  in  the  inner 
circle  of  the  prison.  About  eighteen  of  us,  selected  I  suppose  for  better 
treatment,  were  kept  in  an  old  weaving  shed  with  a  large  open  space 
attached.  My  father,  two  of  my  cousins,  and  I  had  a  small  shed  to  our 
selves,  about  20  feet  by  16.  We  had  considerable  freedom  in  moving 
about  from  one  barrack  to  another.  Frequent  interviews  with  relatives 
outside  were  allowed.  Newspapers  came,  and  the  daily  news  of  fresh 
arrests  and  the  developments  of  our  struggle  kept  up  an  atmosphere 
of  excitement.  Mutual  discussions  and  talks  took  up  a  lot  of  time,  and 
I  could  do  little  reading  or  other  solid  work.  I  spent  the  mornings  in  a 
thorough  cleaning  and  washing  of  our  shed,  in  washing  father's  and 
my  own  clothes,  and  in  spinning.  It  was  winter,  the  best  time  of  year 
in  North  India.  For  the  first  few  weeks  we  were  allowed  to  open 
classes  for  our  volunteers,  or  such  of  them  as  were  illiterate,  to  teach 
them  Hindu  and  Urdu  and  other  elementary  subjects.  In  the  after 
noons  we  played  volleyball.1 

Gradually  restrictions  grew.  We  were  stopped  from  going  outside 
our  enclosure  and  visiting  the  part  of  the  jail  where  most  of  our 
volunteers  were  kept.  The  classes  naturally  stopped.  I  was  discharged 
about  that  time. 

aA  ridiculous  story  has  appeared  in  the  press,  and,  though  contradicted,  continues  to 
appear  from  time  to  time.  According  to  this,  Sir  Harcourt  Butler,  the  then  Governor  of 
the  United  Provinces,  sent  champagne  to  my  father  in  prison.  Sir  Harcourt  sent  my 
father  nothing  at  all  in  prison;  nobody  sent  him  champagne  or  any  other  alcoholic 
drink;  and  indeed  he  had  given  up  alcohol  in  1920  after  the  Congress  took  to  nonco- 
operation,  and  was  not  taking  any  such  drinks  at  that  time. 

87 


I  went  out  early  in  March,  and  six  or  seven  weeks  later,  in  April,  I 
returned.  I  found  that  the  conditions  had  greatly  changed.  Father  had 
been  transferred  to  the  Naini  Tal  Jail,  and,  soon  after  his  departure, 
new  rules  were  enforced.  All  the  prisoners  in  the  big  weaving  shed, 
where  I  had  been  kept  previously,  were  transferred  to  the  inner  jail 
and  kept  in  the  barracks  (single  halls)  there.  Each  barrack  was  prac 
tically  a  jail  within  a  jail,  and  no  communications  were  allowed  be 
tween  different  barracks.  Interviews  and  letters  were  now  restricted  to 
one  a  month.  The  food  was  much  simpler,  though  we  were  allowed 
to  supplement  it  from  outside. 

In  the  barracks  in  which  I  was  kept  there  must  have  been  about  fifty 
persons.  We  were  all  crowded  together,  our  beds  being  about  three  or 
four  feet  from  each  other.  Fortunately  almost  everybody  in  that  bar 
rack  was  known  to  me,  and  there  were  many  friends.  But  the  utter 
want  of  privacy,  all  day  and  night,  became  more  and  more  difficult  to 
endure.  Always  the  same  crowd  looking  on,  the  same  petty  annoyances 
and  irritations,  and  no  escape  from  them  to  a  quiet  nook.  We  bathed 
in  public  and  washed  our  clothes  in  public,  and  ran  round  and  round 
the  barrack  for  exercise,  and  talked  and  argued  till  we  had  largely 
exhausted  one  another's  capacity  for  intelligent  conversation.  It  was  the 
dull  side  of  family  life,  magnified  a  hundredfold,  with  few  of  its  graces 
and  compensations,  and  all  this  among  people  of  all  kinds  and  tastes. 
It  was  a  great  nervous  strain  for  all  of  us,  and  often  I  yearned  for  soli 
tude.  In  later  years  I  was  to  have  enough  of  this  solitude  and  privacy 
in  prison,  when  for  months  I  would  see  no  one  except  an  occasional 
jail  official.  Again  I  lived  in  a  state  of  nervous  tension,  but  this  time  I 
longed  for  suitable  company.  I  thought  then  sometimes,  almost  with 
envy,  of  my  crowded  existence  in  the  Lucknow  District  Jail  in  1922, 
and  yet  I  knew  well  enough  that  of  the  two  I  preferred  the  solitude, 
provided  at  least  that  I  could  read  and  write. 

And  yet  I  must  say  that  the  company  was  unusually  decent  and 
pleasant,  and  we  got  on  well  together.  But  all  of  us,  I  suppose,  got  a 
little  bored  with  the  others  occasionally  and  wanted  to  be  away  from 
them  and  have  a  little  privacy.  The  nearest  approach  to  privacy  that 
I  could  get  was  by  leaving  my  barrack  and  sitting  in  the  open  part  of 
the  enclosure.  It  was  the  monsoon  season,  and  it  was  usually  possible 
to  do  so  because  of  the  clouds.  I  braved  the  heat  and  an  occasional 
drizzle  even,  and  spent  as  much  time  as  possible  outside  the  barrack. 

Lying  there  in  the  open,  I  watched  the  skies  and  the  clouds  and  I 


realized,  better  than  I  had  ever  done  before,  how  amazingly  beautiful 
were  their  changing  hues. 

To  watch  the  changing  clouds,  li\e  clime  in  clime; 
Oh!  sweet  to  lie  and  bless  the  luxury  of  time. 

Time  was  not  a  luxury  for  us,  it  was  more  of  a  burden.  But  the 
time  I  spent  in  watching  those  ever-shifting  monsoon  clouds  was  filled 
with  delight  and  a  sense  of  relief.  I  had  the  joy  of  having  made  almost 
a  discovery,  and  a  feeling  of  escape  from  confinement.  I  do  not  know 
why  that  particular  monsoon  had  that  great  effect  on  me;  no  previous 
or  subsequent  one  has  moved  me  in  that  way.  I  had  seen  and  admired 
many  a  fine  sunrise  and  sunset  in  the  mountains  and  over  the  sea,  and 
bathed  in  its  glory,  and  felt  stirred  for  the  time  being  by  its  magnifi 
cence.  Having  seen  it,  I  had  almost  taken  it  for  granted  and  passed  on 
to  other  things.  But  in  jail  there  were  no  sunrises  or  sunsets  to  be  seen, 
the  horizon  was  hidden  from  us,  and  late  in  the  morning  the  hot-rayed 
sun  emerged  over  our  guardian  walls.  There  were  no  colors  anywhere, 
and  our  eyes  hardened  and  grew  dull  at  seeing  always  that  same  drab 
view  of  mud-colored  wall  and  barrack.  They  must  have  hungered  for 
some  light  and  shade  and  coloring,  and,  when  the  monsoon  clouds 
sailed  gaily  by,  assuming  fantastic  shapes  and  playing  in  a  riot  of  color, 
I  gasped  in  surprised  delight  and  watched  them  almost  as  if  I  were  in 
a  trance.  Sometimes  the  clouds  would  break,  and  one  saw  through  an 
opening  in  them  that  wonderful  monsoon  phenomenon,  a  dark  blue 
of  an  amazing  depth,  which  seemed  to  be  a  portion  of  infinity. 

The  restrictions  on  us  gradually  grew  in  number,  and  stricter  rules 
were  enforced.  The  Government,  having  got  the  measure  of  our  move 
ment,  wanted  us  to  experience  the  full  extent  of  its  displeasure  with 
our  temerity  in  having  dared  to  challenge  it.  The  introduction  of  new 
rules  or  the  manner  of  their  enforcement  led  to  friction  between  the 
jail  authorities  and  the  political  prisoners.  For  several  months  nearly 
all  of  us — we  were  some  hundreds  at  the  time  in  that  particular  jail — 
gave  up  our  interviews  as  a  protest.  Evidently  it  was  thought  that  some 
of  us  were  the  troublemakers,  and  so  seven  of  us  were  transferred  to 
a  distant  part  of  the  jail,  quite  cut  of?  from  the  main  barracks. 

We  were  sent  to  a  smaller  enclosure,  and  there  were  some  disadvan 
tages  in  living  there.  But  on  the  whole  I  was  glad  of  the  change.  There 
was  no  crowding  here;  we  could  live  in  greater  quiet  and  with  more 
privacy.  There  was  more  time  to  read  or  do  other  work.  We  were  cut 
off  completely  from  our  colleagues  in  other  parts  of  the  jail  as  well  as 


from  the  outside  world,  for  newspapers  were  now  stopped  for  all  po 
litical  prisoners. 

Newspapers  did  not  come  to  us,  but  some  news  from  outside  trickled 
through,  as  it  always  manages  to  trickle  through  in  prison.  Our 
monthly  interviews  and  letters  also  brought  us  odd  bits  o£  information. 
We  saw  that  our  movement  was  at  a  low  ebb  outside.  The  magic 
moment  had  passed,  and  success  seemed  to  retire  into  the  dim  future. 
Outside,  the  Congress  was  split  into  two  factions — the  pro-changers 
and  no-changers.  The  former,  under  the  leadership  of  Deshbandhu 
Das  and  my  father,  wanted  the  Congress  to  take  part  in  the  new 
elections  to  the  central  and  provincial  councils  and,  if  possible,  to  cap 
ture  these  legislatures;  the  latter,  led  by  C.  Rajagopalachari,  opposed 
any  change  of  the  old  program  of  nonco-operation.  Gandhiji  was,  of 
course,  in  prison  at  the  time.  The  fine  ideals  of  the  movement  which 
had  carried  us  forward,  as  on  the  crest  of  an  advancing  tide,  were 
being  swamped  by  petty  squabbles  and  intrigues  for  power.  We  real 
ized  how  much  easier  it  was  to  do  great  and  venturesome  deeds  in  mo 
ments  of  enthusiasm  and  excitement  than  to  carry  on  from  day  to  day 
when  the  glow  was  past.  Our  spirits  were  damped  by  the  news  from 
outside,  and  this,  added  to  the  various  humors  that  prison  produces, 
increased  the  strain  of  life  there.  But  still  there  remained  within  us  an 
inner  feeling  of  satisfaction,  that  we  had  preserved  our  self-respect  and 
dignity,  that  we  had  acted  rightly  whatever  the  consequences.  The 
future  was  dim,  but,  whatever  shape  it  might  take,  it  seemed  that  it 
would  be  the  lot  of  many  of  us  to  spend  a  great  part  of  our  lives  in 
prison. 

We  settled  down  to  a  routine  of  work  and  exercise.  For  exercise  we 
used  to  run  round  and  round  the  little  enclosure,  or  two  of  us  would 
draw  water,  like  two  bullocks  yoked  together,  pulling  a  huge  leather 
bucket  from  a  well  in  our  yard.  In  this  way  we  watered  a  small  vege 
table  garden  in  our  enclosure.  Most  of  us  used  to  spin  a  little  daily. 
But  reading  was  my  principal  occupation  during  those  winter  days  and 
long  evenings.  Almost  always,  whenever  the  superintendent  visited  us, 
he  found  me  reading.  This  devotion  to  reading  seemed  to  get  on  his 
nerves  a  little,  and  he  remarked  on  it  once,  adding  that,  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  he  had  practically  finished  his  general  reading  at  the 
age  of  twelve!  No  doubt  this  abstention  on  his  part  had  been  of  use 
to  that  gallant  English  colonel  in  avoiding  troublesome  thoughts,  and 
perhaps  it  helped  him  subsequently  in  rising  to  the  position  of  In 
spector-General  of  Prisons  in  the  United  Provinces. 

90 


The  long  winter  evenings  and  the  clear  Indian  sky  attracted  us  to 
the  stars,  and,  with  the  help  of  some  charts,  we  spotted  many  o£  them. 
Nightly  we  would  await  their  appearance  and  greet  them  with  the 
satisfaction  of  seeing  old  acquaintances. 

So  we  passed  our  time,  and  the  days  lengthened  themselves  into 
weeks,  and  the  weeks  became  months.  We  grew  accustomed  to  our 
routine  existence.  But  in  the  world  outside  the  real  burden  fell  on  our 
womenfolk,  our  mothers  and  wives  and  sisters.  They  wearied  with 
the  long  waiting,  and  their  very  freedom  seemed  a  reproach  to  them 
when  their  loved  ones  were  behind  prison  bars. 

Soon  after  our  first  arrest  in  December  1921  the  police  started  paying 
frequent  visits  to  Anand  Bhawan,  our  house  in  Allahabad.  They  came 
to  realize  the  fines  which  had  been  imposed  on  father  and  me.  It  was 
the  Congress  policy  not  to  pay  fines.  So  the  police  came  day  after  day 
and  attached  and  carried  away  bits  of  furniture.  Indira,  my  four-year- 
old  daughter,  was  greatly  annoyed  at  this  continuous  process  of  de 
spoliation  and  protested  to  the  police  and  expressed  her  strong  dis 
pleasure.  I  am  afraid  those  early  impressions  are  likely  to  color  her 
future  views  about  the  police  force  generally. 

In  the  jail  every  effort  was  made  to  keep  us  apart  from  the  ordinary 
nonpolitical  convicts,  special  jails  being  as  a  rule  reserved  for  politicals. 
But  complete  segregation  was  impossible,  and  we  often  came  into 
touch  with  those  prisoners  and  learned  from  them,  as  well  as  directly, 
the  realities  of  prison  life  in  those  days.  It  was  a  story  of  violence  and 
widespread  graft  and  corruption.  The  food  was  quite  amazingly  bad; 
I  tried  it  repeatedly  and  found  it  quite  uneatable.  The  staff  was  usually 
wholly  incompetent  and  was  paid  very  low  salaries,  but  it  had  every 
opportunity  to  add  to  its  income  by  extorting  money  on  every  con 
ceivable  occasion  from  the  prisoners  or  their  relatives.  The  duties  and 
responsibilities  of  the  jailer,  and  his  assistants,  and  the  warders,  as  laid 
down  by  the  Jail  Manual,  were  so  many  and  so  various  that  it  was 
quite  impossible  for  any  person  to  discharge  them  conscientiously  or 
competently.  The  general  policy  of  the  prison  administration  in  the 
United  Provinces  (and  probably  in  other  provinces)  had  absolutely 
nothing  to  do  with  the  reform  of  the  prisoner  or  of  teaching  him 
good  habits  and  useful  trades.  The  object  of  prison  labor  was  to  harass 
the  convict.  He  was  to  be  frightened  and  broken  into  blind  submis 
sion;  the  idea  was  that  he  should  carry  away  from  prison  a  fear  and  a 
horror  of  it,  so  that  he  might  avoid  crime  and  a  return  to  prison  in  the 
future. 

91 


There  have  been  some  changes  in  recent  years  for  the  better.  Food 
has  improved  a  little,  so  also  clothing  and  other  matters.  This  was 
largely  due  to  the  agitation  carried  on  outside  by  political  prisoners 
after  their  discharge.  Nonco-operation  also  resulted  in  a  substantial 
increase  in  the  warders'  salaries  to  give  them  an  additional  inducement 
to  remain  loyal  to  the  sartor.  A  feeble  effort  is  also  made  now  to  teach 
reading  and  writing  to  the  boys  and  younger  prisoners.  But  all  these 
changes,  welcome  as  they  are,  barely  scratch  the  problem,  and  the  old 
spirit  remains  much  the  same. 

The  great  majority  of  the  political  prisoners  had  to  put  up  with  this 
regular  treatment  for  ordinary  prisoners.  They  had  no  special  privileges 
or  other  treatment,  but,  being  more  aggressive  and  intelligent  than  the 
others,  they  could  not  easily  be  exploited,  nor  could  money  be  made 
out  of  them.  Because  of  this  they  were  naturally  not  popular  with  the 
staff,  and,  when  occasion  offered  itself,  a  breach  of  jail  discipline  by 
any  of  them  was  punished  severely.  For  such  a  breach  a  young  boy  of 
fifteen  or  sixteen,  who  called  himself  Azad,  was  ordered  to  be  flogged. 
He  was  stripped  and  tied  to  the  whipping  triangle,  and  as  each  stripe 
fell  on  him  and  cut  into  his  flesh,  he  shouted,  "Mahatma  Gandhi  %i 
jai"  Every  stripe  brought  forth  the  slogan  till  the  boy  fainted.  Later, 
that  boy  was  to  become  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  group  of  terrorists  in 
North  India. 


XVI 

OUT  AGAIN 

ONE  MISSES  MANY  things  in  prison,  but  perhaps  most  of  all  one  misses 
the  sound  of  women's  voices  and  children's  laughter.  The  sounds  one 
usually  hears  are  not  of  the  pleasantest.  The  voices  are  harsh  and  mina 
tory,  and  the  language  brutal  and  largely  consisting  of  swear  words. 
Once  I  remember  being  struck  by  a  new  want.  I  was  in  the  Lucknow 
District  Jail,  and  I  realized  suddenly  that  I  had  not  heard  a  dog  bark 
for  seven  or  eight  months. 

On  the  last  day  of  January  1923  all  of  us  politicals  in  the  Lucknow 
Jail  were  discharged.  There  is  always  a  feeling  of  relief  and  a  sense  of 
glad  excitement  in  coming  out  of  the  prison  gate.  The  fresh  air  and 
open  expanses,  the  moving  street  scene,  and  the  meeting  with  old 
friends,  all  go  to  the  head  and  slightly  intoxicate.  Almost,  there  is  a 

92 


touch  of  hysteria  in  one's  first  reactions  to  the  outer  world.  We  felt 
exhilarated,  but  this  was  a  passing  sensation,  for  the  state  of  Congress 
politics  was  discouraging  enough.  In  the  place  of  ideals  there  were 
intrigues,  and  various  cliques  were  trying  to  capture  the  Congress 
machinery  by  the  usual  methods  which  have  made  politics  a  hateful 
word  to  those  who  are  at  all  sensitive. 

On  my  return  home  from  jail  the  first  letter  that  met  my  eyes  was 
one  from  Sir  Grimwood  Mears,  the  then  Chief  Justice  of  the  Allaha 
bad  High  Court.  The  letter  had  been  written  before  my  discharge,  but 
evidently  in  the  knowledge  that  it  was  coming.  I  was  a  little  surprised 
at  the  cordiality  of  his  language  and  his  invitation  to  me  to  visit  him 
frequently.  I  hardly  knew  him.  He  had  just  come  to  Allahabad  in 
1919  when  I  was  drifting  away  from  legal  practice.  I  think  I  argued 
only  one  case  before  him,  and  that  was  my  last  one  in  the  High  Court. 
For  some  reason  or  other  he  developed  a  partiality  for  me  without 
knowing  much  about  me.  He  had  an  idea — he  told  me  so  later — that 
I  would  go  far,  and  he  wanted  to  be  a  wholesome  influence  on  me  to 
make  me  appreciate  the  British  viewpoint.  His  method  was  subtle. 
He  was  of  opinion,  and  there  are  many  Englishmen  who  still  think  so, 
that  the  average  "extremist"  politician  in  India  had  become  anti-British 
because  in  the  social  sphere  he  had  been  treated  badly  by  Englishmen. 
This  had  led  to  resentment  and  bitterness  and  extremism.  There  is  a 
story,  which  has  been  repeated  by  responsible  persons,  to  the  effect  that 
my  father  was  refused  election  to  an  English  club  and  this  made  him 
anti-British  and  extremist.  The  story  is  wholly  without  foundation  and 
is  a  distortion  of  an  entirely  different  incident.  But  to  many  an  English 
man  such  instances,  whether  true  or  not,  afford  a  simple  and  sufficient 
explanation  of  the  origins  of  the  nationalist  movement.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  neither  my  father  nor  I  had  any  particular  grievance  on  this  score. 
As  individuals  we  had  usually  met  with  courtesy  from  the  English 
man,  and  we  got  on  well  with  him,  though,  like  all  Indians,  we  were 
no  doubt  racially  conscious  of  subjection,  and  resented  it  bitterly.  I 
must  confess  that  even  today  I  get  on  very  well  with  an  Englishman, 
unless  he  happens  to  be  an  official  and  wants  to  patronize  me,  and 
even  then  there  is  no  lack  of  humor  in  our  contacts.  Probably  I  have 
more  in  common  with  him  than  the  Liberals  or  others  who  co-operate 
with  him  politically  in  India. 

Sir  Grimwood's  idea  was  to  root  out  this  original  cause  of  bitterness 
by  friendly  intercourse  and  frank  and  courteous  treatment.  I  saw  him 
several  times.  On  the  pretext  of  objecting  to  some  municipal  tax  he 

93 


would  come  to  see  me  and  discuss  other  matters.  On  one  occasion  he 
made  quite  an  onslaught  on  the  Indian  Liberals — timid,  weak-kneed 
opportunists  with  no  character  or  backbone,  he  called  them,  and  his 
language  was  stronger  and  full  of  contempt.  "Do  you  think  we  have 
any  respect  for  them?"  he  said.  I  wondered  why  he  spoke  to  me  in  this 
way;  probably  because  he  thought  that  this  kind  of  talk  might  please 
me.  And  then  he  led  up  the  conversation  to  the  new  councils  and  their 
ministers  and  the  opportunities  these  ministers  had  for  serving  their 
country.  Education  was  one  of  the  most  vital  problems  before  the  coun 
try.  Would  not  an  Education  Minister,  with  freedom  to  act  as  he  chose, 
have  a  worthy  opportunity  to  mold  the  destinies  of  millions,  the 
chance  of  a  lifetime?  Suppose,  he  went  on,  a  man  like  you,  with  intelli 
gence,  character,  ideals,  and  the  energy  to  push  them  through,  was  in 
charge  of  education  for  the  province,  could  you  not  perform  wonders? 
And  he  assured  me,  adding  that  he  had  seen  the  Governor  recently, 
that  I  would  be  given  perfect  freedom  to  work  out  my  policy.  Then, 
realizing,  perhaps,  that  he  had  gone  too  far,  he  said  that  he  could  not, 
of  course,  commit  anybody  officially,  and  the  suggestion  he  had  made 
was  a  personal  one. 

I  was  diverted  by  Sir  Grimwood's  diplomatic  and  roundabout  ap 
proach  to  the  proposal  he  had  made.  The  idea  of  my  associating  myself 
with  the  Government  as  a  Minister  was  unthinkable  for  me;  indeed, 
it  was  hateful  to  me.  But  I  have  often  yearned,  then  as  well  as  in  later 
years,  for  a  chance  to  do  some  solid,  positive,  constructive  work.  De 
struction  and  agitation  and  nonco-operation  are  hardly  normal  activi 
ties  for  human  beings.  And  yet,  such  is  our  fate,  that  we  can  only  reach 
the  land  where  we  can  build  after  passing  through  the  deserts  of 
conflict  and  destruction.  And  it  may  be  that  most  of  us  will  spend  our 
energies  and  our  lives  in  struggling  and  panting  through  those  shifting 
sands,  and  the  building  will  have  to  be  done  by  our  children  or  our 
children's  children. 

I  occupied  myself  with  many  activities  and  sought  thereby  to  keep 
away  from  the  problems  that  troubled  me.  But  there  was  no  escape 
from  them,  no  getting  away  from  the  questions  that  were  always  being 
formed  in  my  mind  and  to  which  I  could  find  no  satisfactory  answer. 
Action  now  was  partly  an  attempt  to  run  away  from  myself;  no  longer 
was  it  a  wholehearted  expression  of  the  self  as  it  had  been  in  1920  and 
1921.  I  came  out  of  the  shell  that  had  protected  me  then  and  looked 
round  at  the  Indian  scene  as  well  as  at  the  world  outside.  I  found  many 
changes  that  I  had  not  so  far  noticed,  new  ideas,  new  conflicts,  and 

94 


instead  of  light  I  saw  a  growing  confusion.  My  faith  in  Gandhiji's 
leadership  remained,  but  I  began  to  examine  some  parts  of  his  program 
more  critically.  But  he  was  in  prison  and  beyond  our  reach,  and  his 
advice  could  not  be  taken. 

From  1923  onward  I  found  a  great  deal  of  solace  and  happiness  in 
family  life,  though  I  gave  little  time  to  it.  I  have  been  fortunate  in  my 
family  relationships,  and  in  times  of  strain  and  difficulty  they  have 
soothed  me  and  sheltered  me.  I  realized,  with  some  shame  at  my  own 
unworthiness  in  this  respect,  how  much  I  owed  to  my  wife  for  her 
splendid  behavior  since  1920.  Proud  and  sensitive  as  she  was,  she  had 
not  only  put  up  with  my  vagaries  but  brought  me  comfort  and  solace 
when  I  needed  them  most. 

Our  style  of  living  had  undergone  some  change  since  1920.  It  was 
much  simpler,  and  the  number  of  servants  had  been  greatly  reduced. 
Even  so,  it  was  not  lacking  in  any  essential  comfort.  Partly  to  get  rid 
of  superfluities  and  partly  to  raise  money  for  current  expenditures, 
many  things  had  been  sold  off — horses  and  carriages,  and  household 
articles  which  did  not  fit  in i  with  our  new  style  of  living.  Part  of  our 
furniture  had  been  seized  and  sold  by  the  police.  For  lack  of  furniture 
and  gardeners,  our  house  lost  its  prim  and  clean  appearance,  and  the 
garden  went  wild.  For  nearly  three  years  little  attention  had  been  paid 
to  house  or  garden.  Having  become  accustomed  to  a  lavish  scale  of 
expenditure,  father  disliked  many  economies.  He  decided  therefore  to 
go  in  for  chamber  practice  in  his  spare  time  and  thus  earn  some 
money.  He  had  very  little  spare  time,  but,  even  so,  he  managed  to 
earn  a  fair  amount. 

I  felt  uncomfortable  and  a  little  unhappy  at  having  to  depend  finan 
cially  on  father.  Ever  since  I  had  given  up  my  legal  practice,  I  had 
practically  no  income  of  my  own,  except  a  trifle  from  some  dividends 
on  shares.  My  wife  and  I  did  not  spend  much.  Indeed,  I  was  quite 
surprised  to  find  how  little  we  spent.  This  was  one  of  the  discoveries 
made  by  me  in  1921  which  brought  me  great  satisfaction.  Khadi  clothes 
and  third-class  railway  traveling  demand  little  money.  I  did  not  fully 
realize  then,  living  as  we  did  with  father,  that  there  are  innumerable 
other  household  expenses  which  mount  up  to  a  considerable  figure. 
Anyhow,  the  fear  of  not  having  money  has  never  troubled  me;  I  sup 
pose  I  could  earn  enough  in  case  of  necessity,  and  we  can  do  with 
relatively  little. 

We  were  not  much  of  a  burden  on  father,  and  even  a  hint  of  this 
kind  would  have  pained  him  greatly.  Yet  I  disliked  my  position,  and 

95 


for  the  next  three  years  I  thought  over  the  problem  without  finding  a 
solution.  There  was  no  great  difficulty  in  my  finding  paying  work, 
but  the  acceptance  of  any  such  work  necessitated  my  giving  up  or,  at 
any  rate,  my  curtailing  the  public  work  I  was  doing.  So  far  I  had  given 
all  my  working  time  to  Congress  work  and  municipal  work.  I  did  not 
like  to  withdraw  from  them  for  the  sake  of  making  money.  So  I 
refused  offers,  financially  very  advantageous,  from  big  industrial  firms. 
Probably  they  were  willing  to  pay  heavily,  not  so  much  for  my  com 
petence  as  for  the  opportunity  to  exploit  my  name.  I  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  being  associated  with  big  industry  in  this  way.  To  go  back  to 
the  profession  of  law  was  also  out  of  the  question  for  me.  My  dislike 
for  it  had  grown  and  kept  on  growing. 

A  suggestion  was  made  in  the  1924  Congress  that  the  general  secre 
taries  should  be  paid.  I  happened  to  be  one  of  the  secretaries  then,  and 
I  welcomed  the  proposal.  It  seemed  to  me  quite  wrong  to  expect  whole- 
time  work  from  anyone  without  paying  him  a  maintenance  allowance 
at  least.  Otherwise  some  person  with  private  means  has  to  be  chosen, 
and  such  gentlemen  of  leisure  are  not  perhaps  always  politically  desir 
able,  nor  can  they  be  held  responsible  for  the  work.  The  Congress 
would  not  have  paid  much;  our  rates  of  payment  were  low  enough. 
But  there  is  in  India  an  extraordinary  and  thoroughly  unjustified  prej 
udice  against  receiving  salaries  from  public  funds  (though  not  from 
the  State),  and  my  father  strongly  objected  to  my  doing  so.  My  co- 
secretary,  who  was  himself  in  great  need  of  money,  also  considered  it 
below  his  dignity  to  accept  it  from  the  Congress.  And  so  I,  who  had 
no  dignity  in  the  matter  and  was  perfectly  prepared  to  accept  a  salary, 
had  to  do  without  it. 

Once  only  I  spoke  to  father  on  the  subject  and  told  him  how  I  dis 
liked  the  idea  of  my  financial  dependence.  I  put  it  to  him  as  gently 
and  indirectly  as  possible  so  as  not  to  hurt  him.  He  pointed  out  to  me 
how  foolish  it  would  be  of  me  to  spend  my  time,  or  most  of  it,  in 
earning  a  little  money,  instead  of  doing  public  work.  It  was  far  easier 
for  him  to  earn  with  a  few  days'  work  all  that  my  wife  and  I  would 
require  for  a  year.  The  argument  was  weighty,  but  it  left  me  unsatis 
fied.  However,  I  continued  to  act  in  consonance  with  it. 


XVII 

AN  INTERLUDE  AT  NABHA 

IMMEDIATELY  AFTER  THE  Congress  at  Delhi  in  the  autumn  of  1923  I  had 
a  strange  and  unexpected  adventure. 

The  Sikhs,  and  especially  the  Akalis  among  them,  had  been  coming 
into  repeated  conflict  with  the  Government  in  the  Punjab.  The  inci 
dent  to  which  I  am  going  to  refer  had  little  to  do  with  this  general 
Sikh  movement,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  it  occurred  because  of  the 
Sikh  upheaval.  The  rulers  of  two  Sikh  states  in  the  Punjab,  Patiala  and 
Nabha,  had  a  bitter,  personal  quarrel  which  resulted  ultimately  in  the 
deposition  of  the  Maharaja  of  Nabha  by  the  Government  of  India.  A 
British  Administrator  was  appointed  to  rule  the  Nabha  State.  This 
deposition  was  resented  by  the  Sikhs,  and  they  agitated  against  it  both 
in  Nabha  and  outside.  In  the  course  of  this  agitation,  a  religious  cere 
mony,  at  a  place  called  Jaito  in  Nabha  State,  was  stopped  by  the  new 
Administrator.  To  protest  against  this,  and  with  the  declared  object 
of  continuing  the  interrupted  ceremony,  the  Sikhs  began  sending 
jathas  (batches  of  men)  to  Jaito.  These  jathas  were  stopped,  beaten  by 
the  police,  arrested,  and  usually  carried  to  an  out-of-the-way  place  in 
the  jungle  and  left  there.  I  had  been  reading  accounts  of  these  beatings 
from  time  to  time,  and,  when  I  learned  at  Delhi,  immediately  after  the 
Special  Congress,  that  another  jatha  was  going  and  I  was  invited  to 
come  and  see  what  happened,  I  gladly  accepted  the  invitation.  It 
meant  the  loss  of  only  a  day  to  me,  as  Jaito  was  near  Delhi.  Two  of 
my  Congress  colleagues — A.  T.  Gidwani  and  K.  Santanum  of  Madras 
— accompanied  me.  The  jatha  marched  most  of  the  way.  It  was  ar 
ranged  that  we  should  go  to  the  nearest  railway  station  and  then  try 
to  reach  by  road  the  Nabha  boundary  near  Jaito  just  when  the  jatha 
was  due  to  arrive  there.  We  arrived  in  time,  having  come  in  a  country 
cart,  and  followed  the  jatha,  keeping  apart  from  it.  On  arrival  at  Jaito 
the  jatha  was  stopped  by  the  police,  and  immediately  an  order  was 
served  on  me,  signed  by  the  English  Administrator,  calling  upon  me 
not  to  enter  Nabha  territory  and,  if  I  had  entered  it,  to  leave  it  imme 
diately.  A  similar  order  was  served  on  Gidwani  and  Santanum,  but 
without  their  names  being  mentioned,  as  the  Nabha  authorities  did 
not  know  them.  My  colleagues  and  I  told  the  police  officer  that  we 
were  there  not  as  part  of  the  jatha  but  as  spectators,  and  it  was  not  our 
intention  to  break  any  of  the  Nabha  laws.  Besides,  when  we  were 

97 


already  in  the  Nabha  territories,  there  could  be  no  question  of  our  not 
entering  them,  and  obviously  we  could  not  vanish  suddenly  into  thin 
air.  Probably  the  next  train  from  Jaito  went  many  hours  later.  So  for 
the  present,  we  told  him,  we  proposed  to  remain  there.  We  were  im 
mediately  arrested  and  taken  to  the  lock-up.  After  our  removal  the 
jatha  was  dealt  with  in  the  usual  manner. 

We  were  kept  the  whole  day  in  the  lock-up,  and  in  the  evening  we 
were  marched  to  the  station.  Santanum  and  I  were  handcuffed  to 
gether,  his  left  wrist  to  my  right  one,  and  a  chain  attached  to  the 
handcuff  was  held  by  the  policeman  leading  us.  Gidwani,  also  hand 
cuffed  and  chained,  brought  up  the  rear.  This  march  of  ours  down 
the  streets  of  Jaito  town  reminded  me  forcibly  of  a  dog  being  led  on 
by  a  chain.  We  felt  somewhat  irritated  to  begin  with,  but  the  humor 
of  the  situation  dawned  upon  us,  and  on  the  whole  we  enjoyed  the 
experience.  We  did  not  enjoy  the  night  that  followed.  This  was  partly 
spent  in  crowded  third-class  compartments  in  slow-moving  trains, 
with,  I  think,  a  change  at  midnight,  and  partly  in  a  lock-up  at  Nabha. 
•  All  this  time,  till  the  forenoon  of  next  day,  when  we  were  finally 
delivered  up  at  the  Nabha  Jail,  the  joint  handcuff  and  the  heavy 
chain  kept  us  company.  Neither  of  us  could  move  at  all  without  the 
other's  co-operation.  To  be  handcuffed  to  another  person  for  a  whole 
night  and  part  of  a  day  is  not  an  experience  I  should  like  to  repeat. 

In  Nabha  Jail  we  were  all  three  kept  in  a  most  unwholesome  and 
insanitary  cell.  It  was  small  and  damp,  with  a  low  ceiling  which  we 
could  almost  touch.  At  night  we  slept  on  the  floor,  and  I  would  wake 
up  with  a  start,  full  of  horror,  to  find  that  a  rat  or  a  mouse  had  just 
passed  over  my  face. 

Two  or  three  days  later  we  were  taken  to  court  for  our  case,  and 
the  most  extraordinary  and  Gilbertian  proceedings  went  on  there  from 
day  to  day.  The  magistrate  or  judge  seemed  to  be  wholly  uneducated. 
He  knew  no  English,  of  course,  but  I  doubt  if  he  knew  how  to  write 
the  court  language,  Urdu.  We  watched  him  for  over  a  week,  and  dur 
ing  all  this  time  he  never  wrote  a  line.  If  he  wanted  to  write  anything, 
he  made  the  court  reader  do  it.  We  put  in  a  number  of  small  applica 
tions.  He  did  not  pass  any  orders  on  them  at  the  time.  He  kept  them 
and  produced  them  the  next  day  with  a  note  written  by  somebody 
else  on  them.  We  did  not  formally  defend  ourselves.  We  had  got  so 
used  to  not  defending  cases  in  court  during  the  nonco-operation  move 
ment  that  the  idea  of  defense,  even  when  it  was  manifestly  permissible, 
seemed  almost  indecent.  But  I  gave  the  court  a  long  statement  contain- 


ing  the  facts,  as  well  as  my  own  opinion  about  Nabha  ways,  especially 
under  British  administration. 

Our  case  was  dragging  on  from  day  to  day  although  it  was  a  simple 
enough  affair.  Suddenly  there  was  a  diversion.  One  afternoon  after  the 
court  had  risen  for  the  day  we  were  kept  waiting  in  the  building;  and 
late  in  the  evening,  at  about  7  P.M.,  we  were  taken  to  another  room 
where  a  person  was  sitting  by  a  table  and  there  were  some  other 
people  about.  One  man,  our  old  friend,  the  police  officer  who  had 
arrested  us  at  Jaito,  was  there,  and  he  got  up  and  began  making  a 
statement.  I  inquired  where  we  were  and  what  was  happening.  I  was 
informed  that  it  was  a  courtroom  and  we  were  being  tried  for  con 
spiracy.  This  was  an  entirely  different  proceeding  from  the  one  we  had 
so  far  attended,  which  was  for  breach  of  the  order  not  to  enter  Nabha 
territory.  It  was  evidently  thought  that  the  maximum  sentence  for 
this  breach,  being  only  six  months,  was  not  enough  punishment  for  us 
and  a  more  serious  charge  was  necessary.  Apparently  three  were  not 
enough  for  conspiracy,  and  so  a  fourth  man,  who  had  absolutely  noth 
ing  to  do  with  us,  was  arrested  and  put  on  his  trial  with  us.  This 
unhappy  man,  a  Sikh,  was  not  known  to  us,  but  we  had  just  seen  him 
in  the  fields  on  our  way  to  Jaito. 

The  lawyer  in  me  was  rather  taken  aback  by  the  casualness  with 
which  a  conspiracy  trial  had  been  started.  The  case  was  a  totally  false 
one,  but  decency  required  that  some  formalities  should  be  observed^  I 
pointed  out  to  the  judge  that  we  had  had  no  notice  whatever  and  that 
we  might  have  wanted  to  make  arrangements  for  our  defense.  This 
did  not  worry  him  at  all.  It  was  the  Nabha  way.  If  we  wanted  to 
engage  a  lawyer  for  our  defense  we  could  chose  someone  in  Nabha. 
When  I  suggested  that  I  might  want  some  lawyer  from  outside,  I  was 
told  that  this  was  not  permitted  under  the  Nabha  rules.  We  were 
further  enlightened  about  the  peculiarities  of  Nabha  procedure.  In 
some  disgust  we  told  the  judge  to  do  what  he  liked,  but  so  far  as  we 
were  concerned  we  would  take  no  part  in  the  proceedings.  I  could  not 
wholly  adhere  to  this  resolve.  It  was  difficult  to  listen  to  the  most 
astounding  lies  about  us  and  remain  silent,  and  so  occasionally  we 
expressed  our  opinion,  briefly  but  pointedly,  about  the  witnesses.  We 
also  gave  the  court  a  statement  in  writing  about  the  facts.  This  second 
judge,  who  tried  the  conspiracy  case,  was  more  educated  and  intelli 
gent  than  the  other  one. 

Both  these  cases  went  on  and  we  looked  forward  to  our  daily  visits 
to  the  two  courtrooms,  for  that  meant  a  temporary  escape  from  the 

99 


foul  cell  in  jail.  Meanwhile,  we  were  approached,  on  behalf  of  the 
Administrator,  by  the  superintendent  of  the  jail  and  told  that  if  we 
would  express  our  regret  and  give  an  undertaking  to  go  away  from 
Nabha,  the  proceedings  against  us  would  be  dropped.  We  replied  that 
there  was  nothing  to  express  regret  about,  so  far  as  we  were  con 
cerned;  it  was  for  the  administration  to  apologize  to  us.  We  were  also 
not  prepared  to  give  any  undertaking. 

About  a  fortnight  after  our  arrest  the  two  trials  at  last  ended.  All 
this  time  had  been  taken  up  by  the  prosecution,  for  we  were  not  de 
fending.  Much  of  it  had  been  wasted  in  long  waits,  for  every  little 
difficulty  that  arose  necessitated  an  adjournment  or  a  reference  to  some 
authority  behind  the  scenes — probably  the  English  Administrator. 
On  the  last  day,  when  the  prosecution  case  was  closed,  we  handed  in 
our  written  statements.  The  first  court  adjourned  and,  to  our  surprise, 
returned  a  little  later  with  a  bulky  judgment  written  out  in  Urdu. 
Obviously  this  huge  judgment  could  not  have  been  written  during  the 
interval.  It  had  been  prepared  before  our  statements  had  been  handed 
in.  The  judgment  was  not  read  out;  we  were  merely  told  that  we  had 
been  awarded  the  maximum  sentence  of  six  months  for  breach  of  the 
order  to  leave  Nabha  territory. 

In  the  conspiracy  case  we  were  sentenced  the  same  day  to  either 
eighteen  months  or  two  years,  I  forget  which.  This  was  to  be  in  addi 
tion  to  the  sentence  for  six  months.  Thus  we  were  given  in  all  either 
two  years  or  two  and  a  half  years. 

Right  through  our  trial  there  had  been  any  number  of  remarkable 
incidents  which  gave  us  some  insight  into  the  realities  of  Indian  state 
administration,  or  rather  the  British  administration  of  an  Indian  state. 
The  whole  procedure  was  farcical.  Because  of  this  I  suppose  no  news 
paperman  or  outsider  was  allowed  in  court.  The  police  did  what  they 
pleased,  and  often  ignored  the  judge  or  magistrate  and  actually  dis 
obeyed  his  directions.  The  poor  magistrate  meekly  put  up  with  this, 
but  we  saw  no  reason  why  we  should  do  so.  On  several  occasions  I 
had  to  stand  up  and  insist  on  the  police  behaving  and  obeying  the 
magistrate.  Sometimes  there  was  an  unseemly  snatching  of  papers  by 
the  police,  and,  the  magistrate  being  incapable  of  action  or  of  intro 
ducing  order  in  his  own  court,  we  had  partly  to  do  his  job!  The  poor 
magistrate  was  in  an  unhappy  position.  He  was  afraid  of  the  police, 
and  he  seemed  to  be  a  little  frightened  of  us,  too,  for  our  arrest  had 
been  noised  in  the  press.  If  this  was  the  state  of  affairs  when  more  or 

100 


less  prominent  politicians  like  us  were  concerned,  what,  I  wonder, 
would  be  the  fate  of  others  less  known? 

My  father  knew  something  of  Indian  states,  and  so  he  was  greatly 
upset  at  my  unexpected  arrest  in  Nabha.  Only  the  fact  of  arrest  was 
known;  little  else  in  the  way  of  news  could  leak  out.  In  his  distress  he 
even  telegraphed  to  the  Viceroy  for  news  of  me.  Difficulties  were  put 
in  the  way  of  his  visiting  me  in  Nabha,  but  he  was  allowed  at  last  to 
interview  me  in  prison.  He  could  not  be  of  any  help  to  me,  as  I  was 
not  defending  myself,  and  I  begged  him  to  go  back  to  Allahabad  and 
not  to  worry.  He  returned,  but  he  left  a  young  lawyer  colleague  of 
ours,  Kapil  Dev  Malaviya,  in  Nabha  to  watch  the  proceedings.  Kapil 
Dev's  knowledge  of  law  and  procedure  must  have  been  considerably 
augmented  by  his  brief  experience  of  the  Nabha  courts.  The  police 
tried  to  deprive  him  forcibly  in  open  court  of  some  papers  that  he  had. 

Most  of  the  Indian  states  are  well  known  for  their  backwardness 
and  their  semifeudal  conditions.  They  are  personal  autocracies,  devoid 
even  of  competence  or  benevolence.  Many  a  strange  thing  occurs  there 
which  never  receives  publicity.  And  yet  their  very  inefficiency  lessens 
the  evil  in  some  ways  and  lightens  the  burden  on  their  unhappy 
people.  For  this  is  reflected  in  a  weak  executive,  and  it  results  in  mak 
ing  even  tyranny  and  injustice  inefficient.  That  does  not  make  tyranny 
more  bearable,  but  it  does  make  it  less  far-reaching  and  widespread. 
The  assumption  of  direct  British  control  over  an  Indian  state  has  a 
curious  result  in  changing  this  equilibrium.  The  semifeudal  conditions 
are  retained,  autocracy  is  kept,  the  old  laws  and  procedure  are  still 
supposed  to  function,  all  the  restrictions  on  personal  liberty  and  asso 
ciation  and  expression  of  opinion  (and  these  are  all-embracing)  con 
tinue,  but  one  change  is  made  which  alters  the  whole  background. 
The  executive  becomes  stronger,  while  a  measure  of  efficiency  is  intro 
duced,  and  this  leads  to  a  tightening-up  of  all  the  feudal  and  autocratic 
bonds.  In  course  of  time  the  British  administration  would  no  doubt 
change  some  of  the  archaic  customs  and  methods,  for  they  come  in 
the  way  of  efficient  government  as  well  as  commercial  penetration.  But 
to  begin  with  they  take  full  advantage  of  them  to  tighten  their  hold 
on  the  people,  who  have  now  to  put  up  not  only  with  feudalism  and 
autocracy,  but  with  an  efficient  enforcement  of  them  by  a  strong 
executive. 

I  saw  something  of  this  in  Nabha.  The  state  was  under  a  British 
Administrator,  a  member  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service,  and  he  had  the 
full  powers  of  an  autocrat,  subject  only  to  the  Government  of  India. 

101 


And  yet  at  every  turn  we  were  referred  to  Nabha  laws  and  procedure 
to  justify  the  denial  of  the  most  ordinary  rights.  We  had  to  face  a 
combination  of  feudalism  and  the  modern  bureaucratic  machine  with 
the  disadvantages  of  both  and  the  advantages  of  neither. 

So  our  trial  was  over  and  we  had  been  sentenced.  We  did  not  know 
what  the  judgments  contained,  but  the  solid  fact  of  a  long  sentence 
had  a  sobering  effect.  We  asked  for  copies  of  the  judgments,  and  were 
told  to  apply  formally  for  them. 

That  evening  in  jail  the  superintendent  sent  for  us  and  showed  us 
an  order  of  the  Administrator  under  the  Criminal  Procedure  Code 
suspending  our  sentences.  There  was  no  condition  attached,  and  the 
legal  result  of  that  order  was  that  the  sentences  ended  so  far  as  we 
were  concerned.  The  superintendent  then  produced  a  separate  order 
called  an  executive  order,  also  issued  by  the  Administrator,  asking  us 
to  leave  Nabha  and  not  to  return  to  the  state  without  special  permis 
sion.  I  asked  for  the  copies  of  the  two  orders,  but  they  were  refused. 
We  were  then  escorted  to  the  railway  station  and  released  there.  We 
did  not  know  a  soul  in  Nabha,  and  even  the  city  gates  had  been 
closed  for  the  night.  We  found  that  a  train  was  leaving  soon  for  Am- 
bala,  and  we  took  this.  From  Ambala  I  went  on  to  Delhi  and  Alla 
habad. 

From  Allahabad  I  wrote  to  the  Administrator  requesting  him  to 
send  me  copies  of  his  two  orders,  so  that  I  might  know  exactly  what 
they  were,  also  copies  of  the  two  judgments.  He  refused  to  supply 
any  of  these  copies.  I  pointed  out  that  I  might  decide  to  file  an  appeal, 
but  he  persisted  in  his  refusal.  In  spite  of  repeated  efforts  I  have  never 
had  the  opportunity  to  read  these  judgments,  which  sentenced  me  and 
my  two  colleagues  to  two  years  or  two  and  half  years.  For  aught  I 
know,  these  sentences  may  still  be  hanging  over  me,  and  may  take 
effect  whenever  the  Nabha  authorities  or  the  British  Government  so 
choose. 

The  three  of  us  were  discharged  in  this  "suspended"  way,  but  I 
could  never  find  out  what  had  happened  to  the  fourth  member  of  the 
alleged  conspiracy,  the  Sikh  who  had  been  tacked  on  to  us  for  the 
second  trial.  Very  likely  he  was  not  discharged.  He  had  no  powerful 
friends  or  public  interest  to  help  him,  and,  like  many  another  person, 
he  sank  into  the  oblivion  of  a  state  prison.  He  was  not  forgotten  by  us. 
We  did  what  we  could,  and  this  was  very  little,  and,  I  believe,  the 
Gurdwara  Committee  interested  itself  in  his  case  also. 

All  three  of  us — Gidwani,  Santanum,  and  I — brought  an  unpleasant 

102 


companion  with  us  from  our  cell  in  Nabha  Jail.  This  was  the  typhus 
bacillus,  and  each  one  of  us  had  an  attack  of  typhoid.  Mine  was  severe, 
and  for  a  while  dangerous  enough,  but  it  was  the  lightest  of  the  three, 
and  I  was  only  bedridden  for  about  three  or  four  weeks,  but  the  other 
two  were  very  seriously  ill  for  long  periods. 

There  was  yet  another  sequel  to  this  Nabha  episode.  Probably  six 
months  or  more  later,  Gidwani  was  acting  as  the  Congress  representa 
tive  in  Amritsar,  keeping  in  touch  with  the  Sikh  Gurdwara  Commit 
tee.  The  Committee  sent  a  special  jatha  of  five  hundred  persons  to 
Jaito,  and  Gidwani  decided  to  accompany  it  as  an  observer  to  the 
Nabha  border.  He  had  no  intention  of  entering  Nabha  territory.  The 
jatha  was  fired  on  by  the  police  near  the  border,  and  many  persons 
were,  I  believe,  killed  and  wounded.  Gidwani  went  to  the  help  of 
the  wounded  when  he  was  pounced  upon  by  the  police  and  taken 
away.  No  proceedings  in  court  were  taken  against  him.  He  was  simply 
kept  in  prison  for  the  best  part  of  a  year  when,  utterly  broken  in  health, 
he  was  discharged. 

Gidwani's  arrest  and  confinement  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  monstrous 
abuse  of  executive  authority.  I  wrote  to  the  Administrator  (who  was 
still  the  same  English  member  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service)  and  asked 
him  why  Gidwani  had  been  treated  in  this  way.  He  replied  that 
Gidwani  had  been  imprisoned  because  he  had  broken  the  order  not 
to  enter  Nabha  territory  without  permission.  I  challenged  the  legality 
of  this  as  well  as,  of  course,  the  propriety  of  arresting  a  man  who  was 
giving  succor  to  the  wounded,  and  I  asked  the  Administrator  to  send 
me  or  publish  a  copy  of  the  order  in  question.  He  refused  to  do  so.  I 
felt  inclined  to  go  to  Nabha  myself  and  allow  the  Administrator  to 
treat  me  as  he  had  treated  Gidwani.  Loyalty  to  a  colleague  seemed  to 
demand  it.  But  many  friends  thought  otherwise  and  dissuaded  me. 
I  took  shelter  behind  the  advice  of  friends,  and  made  of  it  a  pretext 
to  cover  my  own  weakness.  For,  after  all,  it  was  my  weakness  and  dis 
inclination  to  go  to  Nabha  Jail  again  that  kept  me  away,  and  I  have 
always  felt  a  little  ashamed  of  thus  deserting  a  colleague.  As  often  with 
us  all,  discretion  was  preferred  to  valor. 


103 


XVIII 

M.  MOHAMAD  ALI,  MY  FATHER,  AND  GANDHIJI 

IN  DECEMBER  1923  the  annual  session  of  the  Congress  was  held  at  Co- 
conada  in  the  south,  Maulana  Mohamad  Ali  was  the  president,  and,  as 
was  his  wont,  he  delivered  an  enormously  long  presidential  address. 
But  it  was  an  interesting  one.  He  traced  the  growth  of  political  and  com 
munal  feeling  among  the  Moslems  and  showed  how  the  famous 
Moslem  deputation  to  the  Viceroy  in  1908,  under  the  leadership  of  the 
Aga  Khan,  which  led  to  the  first  official  declaration  in  favor  of  separate 
electorates,  was  a  command  performance  and  had  been  engineered  by 
the  Government  itself. 

Mohamad  Ali  induced  me,  much  against  my  will,  to  accept  the 
All-India  Congress  secretaryship  for  his  year  of  presidency.  I  had  no 
desire  to  accept  executive  responsibility,  when  I  was  not  clear  about 
future  policy.  But  I  could  not  resist  Mohamad  Ali,  and  both  of  us  felt 
that  some  other  secretary  might  not  be  able  to  work  as  harmoniously 
with  the  new  president  as  I  could.  He  had  strong  likes  and  dislikes, 
and  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  be  included  in  his  "likes."  A  bond  of 
affection  and  mutual  appreciation  tied  us  to  each  other.  He  was  deeply 
and,  as  I  considered,  most  irrationally  religious,  and  I  was  not,  but  I 
was  attracted  by  his  earnestness,  his  overflowing  energy,  and  keen  in 
telligence.  He  had  a  nimble  wit,  but  sometimes  his  devastating  sarcasm 
hurt,  and  he  lost  many  a  friend  thereby.  It  was  quite  impossible  for 
him  to  keep  a  clever  remark  to  himself,  whatever  the  consequences 
might  be. 

We  got  on  well  together  during  his  year  of  office,  though  we  had 
many  little  points  of  difference.  I  introduced  in  the  office  of  the  All- 
India  Congress  Committee  a  practice  of  addressing  all  our  members 
by  their  names  only,  without  any  prefixes  or  suffixes,  honorific  titles 
and  the  like.  There  are  so  many  of  these  in  India — Mahatma,  Maulana, 
Pandit,  Shaikh,  Syed,  Munshi,  Moulvi,  and  latterly  Sriyt  and  Shri,  and, 
of  course,  Mr.  and  Esquire — and  they  are  so  abundantly  and  often  un 
necessarily  used  that  I  wanted  to  set  a  good  example.  But  I  was  not  to 
have  my  way.  Mohamad  Ali  sent  me  a  frantic  telegram  directing  me 
"as  president"  to  revert  to  our  old  practice  and,  in  particular,  always  to 
address  Gandhiji  as  Mahatma. 

Another  frequent  subject  for  argument  between  us  was  the  Al 
mighty.  Mohamad  Ali  had  an  extraordinary  way  of  bringing  in  some 

104 


reference  to  God  even  in  Congress  resolutions,  either  by  way  of  ex 
pressing  gratitude  or  some  kind  of  prayer.  I  used  to  protest,  and  then 
he  would  shout  at  me  for  my  irreligion.  And  yet,  curiously  enough,  he 
would  tell  me  later  that  he  was  quite  sure  that  I  was  fundamentally 
religious,  in  spite  of  my  superficial  behavior  or  my  declarations  to  the 
contrary.  I  have  often  wondered  how  much  truth  there  was  in  his  state 
ment.  Perhaps  it  depends  on  what  is  meant  by  religion  and  religious. 

I  avoided  discussing  this  subject  of  religion  with  him,  because  I  knew 
we  would  only  irritate  each  other,  and  I  might  hurt  him.  It  is  always 
a  difficult  subject  to  discuss  with  convinced  believers  of  any  creed.  With 
most  Moslems  it  is  probably  an  even  harder  matter  for  discussion,  since 
no  latitude  of  thought  is  officially  permitted  to  them.  Ideologically, 
theirs  is  a  straight  and  narrow  path,  and  the  believer  must  not  swerve 
to  the  right  or  the  left.  Hindus  are  somewhat  different,  though  not  al 
ways  so.  In  practice  they  may  be  very  orthodox;  they  may,  and  do,  in 
dulge  in  the  most  out-of-date,  reactionary,  and  even  pernicious  customs, 
and  yet  they  will  usually  be  prepared  to  discuss  the  most  radical  ideas 
about  religion.  I  imagine  the  modern  Arya  Samajists  have  not,  as  a 
rule,  this  wide  intellectual  approach.  Like  the  Moslems,  they  follow 
their  own  straight  and  narrow  path.  There  is  a  certain  philosophical 
tradition  among  the  intelligent  Hindus,  which,  though  it  does  not 
affect  practice,  does  make  a  difference  to  the  ideological  approach  to  a 
religious  question.  Partly,  I  suppose,  this  is  due  to  the  wide  and  often 
conflicting  variety  of  opinions  and  customs  that  are  included  in  the 
Hindu  fold.  It  has,  indeed,  often  been  remarked  that  Hinduism  is 
hardly  a  religion  in  the  usual  sense  of  the  word.  And  yet,  what  amaz 
ing  tenacity  it  has  got,  what  tremendous  power  of  survival!  One  may 
even  be  a  professing  atheist— as  the  old  Hindu  philosopher,  Charvaka, 
was—and  yet  no  one  dares  say  that  he  has  ceased  to  be  a  Hindu.  Hin 
duism  clings  on  to  its  children,  almost  despite  them.  A  Brahman  I  was 
born,  and  a  Brahman  I  seem  to  remain  whatever  I  might  say  or  do  in 
regard  to  religion  or  social  custom.  To  the  Indian  world  I  am  "Pandit" 
so  and  so,  in  spite  of  my  desire  not  to  have  this  or  any  other  honorific 
title  attached  to  my  name.  I  remember  meeting  a  Turkish  scholar  once 
in  Switzerland,  to  whom  I  had  sent  previously  a  letter  of  introduction 
in  which  I  had  been  referred  to  as  "Pandit  Jawaharlal  Nehru."  He  was 
surprised  and  a  little  disappointed  to  see  me,  for,  as  he  told  me,  the 
"Pandit"  had  led  him  to  expect  a  reverend  and  scholarly  gentleman  of 
advanced  years. 
I  met  Mohamad  Ali  for  the  last  time  on  the  occasion  of  the  Lahore 


105 


Congress  in  December  1929.  He  was  not  pleased  with  some  parts  of 
my  presidential  address,  and  he  criticized  it  vigorously.  He  saw  that 
the  Congress  was  going  ahead,  and  becoming  politically  more  ag 
gressive.  He  was  aggressive  enough  himself,  and,  being  so,  he  disliked 
taking  a  back  seat  and  allowing  others  to  be  in  the  front.  He  gave  me 
solemn  warning:  "I  warn  you,  Jawahar,  that  your  present  colleagues 
will  desert  you.  They  will  leave  you  in  the  lurch  in  a  crisis.  Your  own 
Congressmen  will  send  you  to  the  gallows."  A  dismal  prophecy! 

Soon  after  my  return  from  Coconada,  in  January  1924, 1  had  a  new 
kind  of  experience  in  Allahabad.  I  write  from  memory,  and  I  am  likely 
to  get  mixed  up  about  dates.  But  I  think  that  was  the  year  of  the 
Kumbh,  or  the  Ardh-Kumbh,  the  great  bathing  mela  held  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ganges  at  Allahabad.  Vast  numbers  of  pilgrims  usually 
turn  up,  and  most  of  them  bathe  at  the  confluence  of  the  Ganges  and 
the  Jumna — the  Triveni,  it  is  called,  as  the  mythical  Saraswati  is  also 
supposed  to  join  the  other  two.  The  Ganges  river  bed  is  about  a  mile 
wide,  but  in  winter  the  river  shrinks  and  leaves  a  wide  expanse  of  sand 
exposed,  which  is  very  useful  for  the  camps  of  the  pilgrims.  Within 
this  river  bed,  the  Ganges  frequently  changes  its  course.  In  1924  the 
current  of  the  Ganges  was  such  that  it  was  undoubtedly  dangerous  for 
crowds  to  bathe  at  the  Triveni.  With  certain  precautions,  and  the  con 
trol  of  the  numbers  bathing  at  a  time,  the  danger  could  be  greatly 
lessened. 

I  was  not  at  all  interested  in  this  question,  as  I  did  not  propose  to 
acquire  merit  by  bathing  in  the  river  on  the  auspicious  days.  But  I 
noticed  in  the  press  that  a  controversy  was  going  on  between  Pandit 
Madan  Mohan  Malaviya  and  the  Provincial  Government,  the  latter  (or 
the  local  authorities)  having  issued  orders  prohibiting  all  bathing  at 
the  junction  of  the  rivers.  This  was  objected  to  by  Malaviyaji,  as,  from 
the  religious  point  of  view,  the  whole  point  was  to  bathe  at  that  con 
fluence.  The  Government  was  perfectly  justified  in  taking  precautions 
to  prevent  accidents  and  possible  serious  loss  of  life,  but,  as  usual,  it 
set  about  its  work  in  the  most  wooden  and  irritating  way  possible. 

On  the  big  day  of  the  Kumbh,  I  went  down  to  the  river  early  in  the 
morning  to  see  the  mela,  with  no  intention  of  bathing.  On  arrival  at 
the  river  bank,  I  learned  that  Malaviyaji  had  sent  some  kind  of  polite 
ultimatum  to  the  district  magistrate,  asking  him  for  permission  to 
bathe  at  the  Triveni.  Malaviyaji  was  agitated,  and  the  atmosphere  was 
tense.  The  magistrate  refused  permission.  Thereupon  Malaviyaji  de 
cided  to  offer  Satyagraha,  and,  accompanied  by  about  two  hundred 

106 


others,  he  marched  toward  the  junction  of  the  rivers.  I  was  interested 
in  these  developments  and,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  joined  the 
Satyagraha  band.  A  tremendous  barrier  had  been  erected  right  across 
the  open  space,  to  keep  away  people  from  the  confluence.  When  we 
reached  this  high  palisade,  we  were  stopped  by  the  police,  and  a  ladder 
we  had  was  taken  away  from  us.  Being  nonviolent  Satyagrahis,  we  sat 
down  peacefully  on  the  sands  near  the  palisade.  And  there  we  sat  for 
the  whole  morning  and  part  of  the  afternoon.  Hour  after  hour  went 
by,  the  sun  became  stronger,  the  sand  hotter,  and  all  of  us  hungrier. 
Foot  and  mounted  police  stood  by  on  both  sides  of  us.  I  think  the 
regular  cavalry  was  also  there.  Most  of  us  grew  impatient  and  said  that 
something  should  be  done.  I  believe  the  authorities  also  grew  impa 
tient,  and  decided  to  force  the  pace.  Some  order  was  given  to  the 
cavalry,  who  mounted  their  horses.  It  struck  me  (I  do  not  know  if  I 
was  right)  that  they  were  going  to  charge  us  and  drive  us  away  in  this 
fashion.  I  did  not  fancy  the  idea  of  being  chased  by  mounted  troopers, 
and,  anyhow,  I  was  fed  up  with  sitting  there.  So  I  suggested  to  those 
sitting  near  me  that  we  might  as  well  cross  over  the  palisade,  and  I 
mounted  it.  Immediately  scores  of  others  did  likewise,  and  some  even 
pulled  out  a  few  stakes,  thus  making  a  passageway.  Somebody  gave  me 
a  national  flag,  and  I  stuck  it  on  top  of  the  palisade,  where  I  continued 
to  sit.  I  grew  rather  excited  and  thoroughly  enjoyed  myself,  watching 
the  people  clambering  up  or  going  through  and  the  mounted  troopers 
trying  to  push  them  away.  I  must  say  that  the  cavalry  did  their  work 
as  harmlessly  as  possible.  They  waved  about  their  wooden  staffs  and 
pushed  people  with  them  but  refrained  from  causing  much  injury. 
Faint  memories  of  revolutionary  barricades  came  to  me. 

At  last  I  got  down  on  the  other  side  and,  feeling  very  hot  after  my 
exertions,  decided  to  have  a  dip  in  the  Ganges.  On  coming  back,  I  was 
amazed  to  find  that  Malaviyaji  and  many  others  were  still  sitting  on 
the  other  side  of  the  palisade  as  before.  But  the  mounted  troopers  and 
the  foot  police  now  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  between  the  Satya- 
grahis  and  the  palisade.  So  I  went  (having  got  out  by  a  roundabout 
way)  and  sat  down  again  near  Malaviyaji.  For  some  time  we  sat  on, 
and  I  noticed  that  Malaviyaji  was  greatly  agitated;  he  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  control  some  strong  emotion.  Suddenly,  without  a  hint  to 
anyone,  he  dived  in  the  most  extraordinary  way  through  the  policemen 
and  the  horses.  For  anyone  that  would  have  been  a  surprising  dive, 
but  for  an  old  and  physically  weak  person  like  Malaviyaji,  it  was 
astounding.  Anyhow,  we  all  followed  him;  we  all  dived.  After  some 

107 


effort  to  keep  us  back,  the  cavalry  and  the  police  did  not  interfere.  A 
little  later  they  were  withdrawn. 

We  half  expected  some  proceedings  to  be  taken  against  us  by  the 
Government,  but  nothing  of  the  kind  happened.  Government  probably 
did  not  wish  to  take  any  steps  against  Malaviyaji,  and  so  the  smaller 
fry  got  off  too. 

Early  in  1924  there  came  suddenly  the  news  of  the  serious  illness  of 
Gandhiji  in  prison,  followed  by  his  removal  to  a  hospital  and  an  opera 
tion.  India  was  numbed  with  anxiety;  we  held  our  breaths  almost 
and  waited,  full  of  fear.  The  crisis  passed,  and  a  stream  of  people  be 
gan  to  reach  Poona  from  all  parts  of  the  country  to  see  him.  He  was 
still  in  hospital,  a  prisoner  under  guard,  but  he  was  permitted  to  see  a 
limited  number  of  friends.  Father  and  I  visited  him  in  the  hospital. 

He  was  not  taken  back  from  the  hospital  to  the  prison.  As  he  was 
convalescing,  Government  remitted  the  rest  of  his  sentence  and  dis 
charged  him.  He  had  then  served  about  two  years  out  of  the  six  years 
to  which  he  had  been  sentenced.  He  went  to  Juhu,  by  the  seaside  near 
Bombay,  to  recuperate. 

Our  family  also  trekked  to  Juhu,  and  established  itself  in  a  tiny 
little  cottage  by  the  sea.  We  spent  some  weeks  there,  and  I  had,  after 
a  long  gap,  a  holiday  after  my  heart,  for  I  could  indulge  in  swimming 
and  running  and  riding  on  the  beach.  The  main  purpose  of  our  stay, 
however,  was  not  holiday-making,  but  discussions  with  Gandhiji. 
Father  wanted  to  explain  to  him  the  Swarajist  position,  and  to  gain  his 
passive  co-operation  at  least,  if  not  his  active  sympathy.  I  was  also 
anxious  to  have  some  light  thrown  on  the  problems  that  were  troubling 
me.  I  wanted  to  know  what  his  future  program  of  action  was  going 
to  be. 

The  Juhu  talks,  so  far  as  the  Swarajists  were  concerned,  did  not  suc 
ceed  in  winning  Gandhiji,  or  even  in  influencing  him  to  any  extent. 
Behind  all  the  friendly  talk  and  the  courteous  gestures,  the  fact  re 
mained  that  there  was  no  compromise.  They  agreed  to  differ,  and  state 
ments  to  this  effect  were  issued  to  the  press. 

I  also  returned  from  Juhu  a  little  disappointed,  for  Gandhiji  did  not 
resolve  a  single  one  of  my  doubts.  As  is  usual  with  him,  he  refused  to 
look  into  the  future,  or  lay  down  any  long-distance  program. 

Ever  since  Gandhiji  appeared  on  the  Indian  political  scene,  there 
has  been  no  going  back  in  popularity  for  him,  so  far  as  the  masses  are 
concerned.  There  has  been  a  progressive  increase  in  his  popularity, 
and  this  process  still  continues.  They  may  not  carry  out  his  wishes, 

108 


for  human  nature  is  often  weak,  but  their  hearts  are  full  o£  good  will 
for  him.  When  objective  conditions  help,  they  rise  in  huge  mass  move 
ments;  otherwise  they  lie  low.  A  leader  does  not  create  a  mass  move 
ment  out  of  nothing,  as  if  by  a  stroke  of  the  magician's  wand.  He  can 
take  advantage  of  the  conditions  themselves  when  they  arise;  he  can 
prepare  for  them,  but  not  create  them. 

There  is  a  waning  and  a  waxing  of  Gandhiji's  popularity  among 
the  intelligentsia.  In  moments  of  forward-going  enthusiasm  they 
follow  him;  when  the  inevitable  reaction  comes,  they  grow  critical. 
But  even  so  the  great  majority  of  them  bow  down  to  him.  Partly  this 
has  been  due  to  the  absence  of  any  other  effective  program.  The 
Liberals  and  various  groups  resembling  them  do  not  count;  those  who 
believe  in  terroristic  violence  are  completely  out  of  court  in  the  modern 
world  and  are  considered  ineffective  and  out  of  date.  The  socialist 
program  is  still  little  known,  and  it  frightens  the  upper-class  members 
of  the  Congress. 

After  a  brief  political  estrangement  in  the  middle  of  1924,  the  old 
relations  between  my  father  and  Gandhiji  were  resumed  and  they 
grew  even  more  cordial.  However  much  they  differed  from  one 
another,  each  had  the  warmest  regard  and  respect  for  the  other.  What 
was  it  that  they  so  respected?  Father  has  given  us  a  glimpse  into  his 
mind  in  a  brief  foreword  he  contributed  to  a  booklet  called  Thought 
Currents,  containing  selections  from  Gandhiji's  writings : 

"I  have  heard,"  he  writes,  "of  saints  and  supermen,  but  have  never 
had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  them,  and  must  confess  to  a  feeling  of 
skepticism  about  their  real  existence.  I  believe  in  men  and  things  manly. 
The  'Thought  Currents'  preserved  in  this  volume  have  emanated 
from  a  man  and  are  things  manly.  They  are  illustrative  of  two  great 
attributes  of  human  nature — Faith  and  Strength.  .  .  . 

"  'What  is  all  this  going  to  lead  to?'  asks  the  man  with  neither  faith 
nor  strength  in  him.  The  answer  'to  victory  or  death'  does  not  appeal 
to  him.  .  .  .  Meanwhile  the  humble  and  lowly  figure  standing  erect 
...  on  the  firm  footholds  of  faith  unshakable  and  strength  unconquer 
able,  continues  to  send  out  to  his  countrymen  his  message  of  sacrifice 
and  suffering  for  the  motherland.  That  message  finds  echo  in  millions 
of  hearts.  .  .  ." 

And  he  finishes  up  by  quoting  Swinburne's  lines  : 

Have  we  not  men  with  us  royal, 
Men  the  masters  of  things?  .  .  . 

109 


Evidently  he  wanted  to  stress  the  fact  that  he  did  not  admire  Gand- 
hiji  as  a  saint  or  a  Mahatma,  but  as  a  man.  Strong  and  unbending 
himself,  he  admired  strength  of  spirit  in  him.  For  it  was  clear  that 
this  little  man  of  poor  physique  had  something  of  steel  in  him,  some 
thing  rocklike  which  did  not  yield  to  physical  powers,  however  great 
they  might  be.  And  in  spite  of  his  unimpressive  features,  his  loincloth 
and  bare  body,  there  was  a  royalty  and  a  kingliness  in  him  which 
compelled  a  willing  obeisance  from  others.  Consciously  and  deliber 
ately  meek  and  humble,  yet  he  was  full  of  power  and  authority,  and 
he  knew  it,  and  at  times  he  was  imperious  enough,  issuing  commands 
which  had  to  be  obeyed.  His  calm,  deep  eyes  would  hold  one  and 
gently  probe  into  the  depths;  his  voice,  clear  and  limpid,  would  purr 
its  way  into  the  heart  and  evoke  an  emotional  response.  Whether 
his  audience  consisted  of  one  person  or  a  thousand,  the  charm  and 
magnetism  of  the  man  passed  on  to  it,  and  each  one  had  a  feeling 
of  communion  with  the  speaker.  This  feeling  had  little  to  do  with 
the  mind,  though  the  appeal  to  the  mind  was  not  wholly  ignored. 
But  mind  and  reason  definitely  had  second  place.  This  process  of 
"spell-binding"  was  not  brought  about  by  oratory  or  the  hypnotism 
of  silken  phrases.  The  language  was  always  simple  and  to  the  point, 
and  seldom  was  an  unnecessary  word  used.  It  was  the  utter  sincerity 
of  the  man  and  his  personality  that  gripped;  he  gave  the  impression 
of  tremendous  inner  reserves  of  power.  Perhaps  also  it  was  a  tradition 
that  had  grown  up  about  him  which  helped  in  creating  a  suitable 
atmosphere.  A  stranger,  ignorant  of  this  tradition  and  not  in  harmony 
with  the  surroundings,  would  probably  not  have  been  touched  by 
that  spell,  or,  at  any  rate,  not  to  the  same  extent.  And  yet  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  things  about  Gandhiji  was,  and  is,  his  capacity  to 
win  over,  or  at  least  to  disarm,  his  opponents. 

Gandhiji  had  little  sense  of  beauty  or  artistry  in  man-made  objects, 
though  he  admired  natural  beauty.  The  Taj  Mahal  was  for  him  an 
embodiment  of  forced  labor  and  little  more.  His  sense  of  smell  was 
feeble.  And  yet  in  his  own  way  he  had  discovered  the  art  of  living  and 
had  made  of  his  life  an  artistic  whole.  Every  gesture  had  meaning 
and  grace,  without  a  false  touch.  There  were  no  rough  edges  or  sharp 
corners  about  him,  no  trace  of  vulgarity  or  commonness,  in  which, 
unhappily,  our  middle  classes  excel.  Having  found  an  inner  peace,  he 
radiated  it  to  others  and  marched  through  life's  tortuous  ways  with  firm 
and  undaunted  step. 

How  different  was  my  father  from  him!  But  in  him  too  there  was 

no 


strength  of  personality  and  a  measure  of  kingliness,  and  the  lines  of 
Swinburne  he  had  quoted  would  apply  to  him  also.  In  any  gathering 
in  which  he  was  present  he  would  inevitably  be  the  center  and  the 
hub.  Whatever  the  place  where  he  sat  at  table,  it  would  become,  as  an 
eminent  English  judge  said  later,  the  head  of  the  table.  He  was  neither 
meek  nor  mild,  and,  again  unlike  Gandhiji,  he  seldom  spared  those 
who  differed  from  him.  Consciously  imperious,  he  evoked  great  loyalty 
as  well  as  bitter  opposition.  It  was  difficult  to  feel  neutral  about  him; 
one  had  to  like  him  or  dislike  him.  With  a  broad  forehead,  tight  lips, 
and  a  determined  chin,  he  had  a  marked  resemblance  to  the  busts  of 
the  Roman  emperors  in  the  museums  in  Italy.  Many  friends  in  Italy 
who  saw  his  photograph  with  us  remarked  on  this  resemblance.  In 
later  years  especially,  when  his  head  was  covered  with  silver  hair — 
unlike  me,  he  kept  his  hair  to  the  end — there  was  a  magnificence 
about  him  and  a  grand  manner,  which  is  sadly  to  seek  in  this  world 
of  today,  I  suppose  I  am  partial  to  him,  but  I  miss  his  noble  presence 
in  a  world  full  of  pettiness  and  weakness.  I  look  round  in  vain  for 
that  grand  manner  and  splendid  strength  that  was  his. 

I  remember  showing  Gandhiji  a  photograph  of  father  sometime 
in  1924,  when  he  was  having  a  tug-of-war  with  the  Swaraj  party.  In 
this  photograph  father  had  no  mustache,  and,  till  then,  Gandhiji  had 
always  seen  him  with  a  fine  mustache.  He  started  almost  on  seeing 
this  photograph  and  gazed  long  at  it,  for  the  absence  of  the  mustache 
brought  out  the  hardness  of  the  mouth  and  the  chin;  and  he  said,  with 
a  somewhat  dry  smile,  that  now  he  realized  what  he  had  to  contend 
against.  The  face  was  softened,  however,  by  the  eyes  and  by  the  lines 
that  frequent  laughter  had  made.  But  sometimes  the  eyes  glittered. 

In  December  1924  the  Congress  session  was  held  at  Belgaum,  and 
Gandhiji  was  president.  For  him  to  become  the  Congress  president 
was  something  in  the  nature  of  an  anticlimax,  for  he  had  long  been 
the  permanent  superpresident.  I  did  not  like  his  presidential  address. 
It  struck  me  as  being  very  uninspiring.  At  the  end  of  the  session  I 
was  again  elected,  at  Gandhi ji's  instance,  the  working  secretary  of  the 
All-India  Congress  Committee  for  the  next  year.  In  spite  of  my  own 
wishes  in  the  matter,  I  was  gradually  becoming  a  semipermanent 
secretary  of  the  Congress. 


in 


XIX 

COMMUNALISM  RAMPANT 

MY  ILLNESS  IN  the  autumn  o£  1923,  after  my  return  from  Nabha  Prison, 
when  I  had  a  bout  with  the  typhus  germ,  was  a  novel  experience  for 
me.  I  was  unused  to  illness  or  lying  in  bed  with  fever  or  physical 
weakness.  I  was  a  little  proud  of  my  health,  and  I  objected  to  the 
general  valetudinarian  attitude  that  was  fairly  common  in  India.  My 
youth  and  good  constitution  pulled  me  through,  but,  after  the  crisis 
was  over,  I  lay  long  in  bed  in  an  enfeebled  condition,  slowly  working 
my  way  to  health.  And  during  this  period  I  felt  a  strange  detachment 
from  my  surroundings  and  my  day-to-day  work,  and  I  viewed  all  this 
from  a  distance,  apart.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  extricated  myself  from  the 
trees  and  could  see  the  wood  as  a  whole;  my  mind  seemed  clearer  and 
more  peaceful  than  it  had  previously  been.  I  suppose  this  experience, 
or  something  like  it,  is  common  enough  to  those  who  have  passed 
through  severe  illness.  But  for  me  it  was  in  the  nature  of  a  spiritual 
experience — I  use  the  word  not  in  a  narrow  religious  sense — and  it 
influenced  me  considerably.  I  felt  lifted  out  of  the  emotional  atmos 
phere  of  our  politics  and  could  view  the  objectives  and  the  springs 
that  had  moved  me  to  action  more  clearly.  With  this  clarification 
came  further  questioning  for  which  I  had  no  satisfactory  answer.  But 
more  and  more  I  moved  away  from  the  religious  outlook  on  life  and 
politics.  I  cannot  write  much  about  that  experience  of  mine;  it  was 
a  feeling  I  cannot  easily  express.  It  was  eleven  years  ago,  and  only  a 
faded  impression  of  it  remains  in  the  mind  now.  But  I  remember  well 
that  it  had  a  lasting  effect  on  me  and  on  my  way  of  thinking,  and  for 
the  next  two  years  or  more  I  went  about  my  work  with  something 
of  that  air  of  detachment. 

Partly,  no  doubt,  this  was  due  to  developments  which  were  wholly 
outside  my  control  and  with  which  I  did  not  fit  in.  I  have  referred 
already  to  some  of  the  political  changes.  Far  more  important  was  the 
progressive  deterioration  of  Hindu-Moslem  relations,  in  North  India 
especially.  In  the  bigger  cities  a  number  of  riots  took  place,  brutal 
and  callous  in  the  extreme.  The  atmosphere  of  distrust  and  anger  bred 
new  causes  of  dispute  which  most  of  us  had  never  heard  of  before. 
Previously  a  fruitful  source  of  discord  had  been  the  question  of  cow 
sacrifice,  especially  on  the  Ba\r-id  day.  There  was  also  tension  when 
Hindu  and  Moslem  festivals  clashed. 

112 


But  now  a  fresh  cause  of  friction  arose,  something  that  was  ever 
present,  ever  recurring.  This  was  the  question  of  music  before  mosques. 
Objection  was  taken  by  the  Moslems  to  music  or  any  noise  which 
interfered  with  their  prayers  in  their  mosques.  In  every  city  there  are 
many  mosques,  and  five  times  every  day  they  have  prayers,  and  there 
is  no  lack  of  noises  and  processions  (including  marriage  and  funeral 
processions).  So  the  chances  of  friction  were  always  present.  In  par 
ticular,  objection  was  taken  to  processions  and  noises  at  the  time  of 
the  sunset  prayer  in  the  mosques.  As  it  happens,  this  is  just  the  time 
when  evening  worship  takes  place  in  the  Hindu  temples,  and  gongs 
are  sounded  and  the  temple  bells  ring.  Arti,  this  is  called,  and  arti- 
namaz  disputes  now  assumed  major  proportions. 

It  seems  amazing  that  a  question  which  could  be  settled  with  mutual 
consideration  for  each  other's  feelings  and  a  little  adjustment  should 
give  rise  to  great  bitterness  and  rioting.  But  religious  passions  have 
little  to  do  with  reason  or  consideration  or  adjustments,  and  they  are 
easy  to  fan  when  a  third  party  in  control  can  play  off  one  group 
against  another. 

One  is  apt  to  exaggerate  the  significance  of  these  riots  in  a  few 
northern  cities.  Most  of  the  towns  and  cities  and  the  whole  of  rural 
India  carried  on  peacefully,  little  affected  by  these  happenings,  but 
the  newspapers  naturally  gave  great  prominence  to  every  petty  com 
munal  disturbance.1  It  is  perfectly  true,  however,  that  communal 
tension  and  bitterness  increased  in  the  city  masses.  This  was  pushed 
on  by  the  communal  leaders  at  the  top,  and  it  was  reflected  in  the 
stiff ening-up  of  the  political  communal  demands.  Because  of  the  com 
munal  tension,  Moslem  political  reactionaries,  who  had  taken  a  back 
seat  during  all  these  years  of  nonco-operation,  emerged  into  promi 
nence,  helped  in  the  process  by  the  British  Government.  From  day  to 
day  new  and  more  far-reaching  communal  demands  appeared  on  their 
behalf,  striking  at  the  very  root  of  national  unity  and  Indian  freedom. 
On  the  Hindu  side  also  political  reactionaries  were  among  the  principal 
communal  leaders,  and,  in  the  name  of  guarding  Hindu  interests,  they 
played  definitely  into  the  hands  of  the  Government.  They  did  not 
succeed,  and  indeed  they  could  not,  however  much  they  tried  by  their 
methods,  in  gaining  any  of  the  points  on  which  they  laid  stress;  they 
succeeded  only  in  raising  the  communal  temper  of  the  country. 

The  Congress  was  in  a  quandary.  Sensitive  to  and  representative 

^•The  term  "communalism"  in  Indian  usage  connotes  the  opposition  of  religious 
groups  within  the  state  on  political  and  other  matters. — Ed. 

"3 


of  national  feeling  as  it  was,  these  communal  passions  were  bound 
to  affect  it.  Many  a  Congressman  was  a  commtmalist  under  his  national 
cloak.  But  the  Congress  leadership  stood  firm  and,  on  the  whole, 
refused  to  side  with  either  communal  party,  or  rather  with  any  com 
munal  group,  for  now  the  Sikhs  and  other  smaller  minorities  were 
also  loudly  voicing  their  particular  demands.  Inevitably  this  led  to 
denunciation  from  both  the  extremes. 

Long  ago,  right  at  the  commencement  of  nonco-operation  or  even 
earlier,  Gandhiji  had  laid  down  his  formula  for  solving  the  communal 
problem.  According  to  him,  it  could  only  be  solved  by  good  will  and 
the  generosity  of  the  majority  group,  and  so  he  was  prepared  to  agree 
to  everything  that  the  Moslems  might  demand.  He  wanted  to  win 
them  over,  not  to  bargain  with  them.  With  foresight  and  a  true  sense 
of  values  he  grasped  at  the  reality  that  was  worth  while;  but  others, 
who  thought  they  knew  the  market  price  of  everything  and  were 
ignorant  of  the  true  value  of  anything,  stuck  to  the  methods  of  the 
market  place.  They  saw  the  cost  of  purchase  with  painful  clearness, 
but  they  had  no  appreciation  of  the  worth  of  the  article  they  might 
have  bought. 

It  is  easy  to  criticize  and  blame  others,  and  the  temptation  is  almost 
irresistible  to  find  some  excuse  for  the  failure  of  one's  plans.  Was  not 
the  failure  due  to  the  deliberate  thwarting  of  others,  rather  than  to 
an  error  in  one's  own  way  of  thinking  or  acting?  We  cast  the  blame 
on  the  Government  and  the  communalists;  the  latter  blame  the  Con 
gress.  Of  course,  there  was  thwarting  of  us,  deliberate  and  persistent 
thwarting,  by  the  Government  and  their  allies.  Of  course,  British 
governments  in  the  past  and  the  present  have  based  their  policy  on 
creating  divisions  in  our  ranks.  Divide  and  rule  has  always  been  the 
way  of  empires,  and  the  measure  of  their  success  in  this  policy  has 
been  also  the  measure  of  their  superiority  over  those  whom  they  thus 
exploit.  We  cannot  complain  of  this,  or,  at  any  rate,  we  ought  not  to 
be  surprised  at  it.  To  ignore  it  and  not  to  provide  against  it  is  in 
itself  a  mistake  in  one's  thought. 

How  are  we  to  provide  against  it?  Not,  surely,  by  bargaining  and 
haggling  and  generally  adopting  the  tactics  of  the  market  place,  for 
whatever  offer  we  make,  however  high  our  bid  might  be,  there  is 
always  a  third  party  which  can  bid  higher  and,  what  is  more,  give 
substance  to  its  words.  If  there  is  no  common  national  or  social  out 
look,  there  will  not  be  common  action  against  the  common  adversary. 
If  we  think  in  terms  of  the  existing  political  and  economic  structure 

114 


and  merely  wish  to  tamper  with  it  here  and  there,  to  reform  it,  to 
"Indianize"  it,  then  all  real  inducement  for  joint  action  is  lacking. 
The  object  then  becomes  one  of  sharing  in  the  spoils,  and  the  third 
and  controlling  party  inevitably  plays  the  dominant  role  and  hands 
out  its  gifts  to  the  prize  boys  of  its  choice.  Only  by  thinking  in  terms 
of  a  different  political  framework — and  even  more  so  a  different  social 
framework — can  we  build  up  a  stable  foundation  for  joint  action. 
The  whole  area  underlying  the  demand  for  independence  was  this: 
to  make  people  realize  that  we  were  struggling  for  an  entirely  different 
political  structure  and  not  just  an  Indianized  edition  (with  British 
control  behind  the  scenes)  of  the  present  order,  which  Dominion 
status  signifies.  Political  independence  meant,  of  course,  political  free 
dom  only,  and  did  not  include  any  social  change  or  economic  freedom 
for  the  masses.  But  it  did  signify  the  removal  of  the  financial  and 
economic  chains  which  bind  us  to  the  City  of  London,  and  this  would 
have  made  it  easier  for  us  to  change  the  social  structure.  So  I  thought 
then.  I  would  add  now  that  I  do  not  think  it  is  likely  that  real  political 
freedom  will  come  to  us  by  itself.  When  it  comes,  it  will  bring  a  large 
measure  of  social  freedom  also. 

But  almost  all  our  leaders  continued  to  think  within  the  narrow 
steel  frame  of  the  existing  political,  and  of  course  the  social,  structure. 
They  faced  every  problem — communal  or  constitutional — with  this 
background,  and,  inevitably,  they  played  into  the  hands  of  the  British 
Government,  which  controlled  completely  that  structure.  They  could 
not  do  otherwise,  for  their  whole  outlook  was  essentially  reformist 
and  not  revolutionary,  in  spite  of  occasional  experiments  with  direct 
action.  But  the  time  had  gone  by  when  any  political  or  economic  or 
communal  problem  in  India  could  be  satisfactorily  solved  by  reformist 
methods.  Revolutionary  outlook  and  planning  and  revolutionary  solu 
tions  were  demanded  by  the  situation.  But  there  was  no  one  among 
the  leaders  to  offer  these. 

The  want  of  clear  ideals  and  objectives  in  our  struggle  for  freedom 
undoubtedly  helped  the  spread  of  communalism.  The  masses  saw  no 
clear  connection  between  their  day-to-day  sufferings  and  the  fight 
for  Swaraj.  They  fought  well  enough  at  times  by  instinct,  but  that 
was  a  feeble  weapon  which  could  be  easily  blunted  or  even  turned 
aside  for  other  purposes.  There  was  no  reason  behind  it,  and  in 
periods  of  reaction  it  was  not  difficult  for  the  communalists  to  play 
upon  this  feeling  and  exploit  it  in  the  name  of  religion.  It  is  never 
theless  extraordinary  how  the  bourgeois  classes,  both  among  the  Hindus 


and  the  Moslems,  succeeded,  in  the  sacred  name  of  religion,  in  getting 
a  measure  of  mass  sympathy  and  support  for  programs  and  demands 
which  had  absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  the  masses,  or  even  the 
lower  middle  class.  Every  one  of  the  communal  demands  put  forward 
by  any  communal  group  is,  in  the  final  analysis,  a  demand  for  jobs, 
and  these  jobs  could  only  go  to  a  handful  of  the  upper  middle  class. 
There  is  also,  of  course,  the  demand  for  special  and  additional  seats 
in  the  legislatures,  as  symbolizing  political  power,  but  this  too  is  looked 
upon  chiefly  as  the  power  to  exercise  patronage.  These  narrow  political 
demands,  benefiting  at  the  most  a  small  number  of  the  upper  middle 
classes,  and  often  creating  barriers  in  the  way  of  national  unity  and 
progress,  were  cleverly  made  to  appear  the  demands  of  the  masses 
of  that  particular  religious  group.  Religious  passion  was  hitched  on 
to  them  in  order  to  hide  their  barrenness. 

In  this  way  political  reactionaries  came  back  to  the  political  field 
in  the  guise  of  communal  leaders,  and  the  real  explanation  of  the 
various  steps  they  took  was  not  so  much  their  communal  bias  as  their 
desire  to  obstruct  political  advance.  We  could  only  expect  opposition 
from  them  politically,  but  still  it  was  a  peculiarly  distressing  feature 
of  an  unsavory  situation  to  find  to  what  lengths  they  would  go  in 
this  respect.  Moslem  communal  leaders  said  the  most  amazing  things 
and  seemed  to  care  not  at  all  for  Indian  nationalism  or  Indian  freedom; 
Hindu  communal  leaders,  though  always  speaking  apparently  in  the 
name  of  nationalism,  had  little  to  do  with  it  in  practice  and,  incapable 
of  any  real  action,  sought  to  humble  themselves  before  the  Govern 
ment,  and  did  that  too  in  vain.  Both  agreed  in  condemning  socialistic 
and  suchlike  "subversive"  movements;  there  was  a  touching  unanimity 
in  regard  to  any  proposal  affecting  vested  interests.  Moslem  communal 
leaders  said  and  did  many  things  harmful  to  political  and  economic 
freedom,  but  as  a  group  and  individually  they  conducted  themselves 
before  the  Government  and  the  public  with  some  dignity.  That  could 
hardly  be  said  of  the  Hindu  communal  leaders. 

The  Delhi  Unity  Conference  of  1924  was  hardly  over  when  a 
Hindu-Moslem  riot  broke  out  in  Allahabad.  It  was  not  a  big  riot, 
as  such  riots  go,  in  so  far  as  casualties  were  concerned;  but  it  was 
painful  to  have  these  troubles  in  one's  home  town.  I  rushed  back  with 
others  from  Delhi  to  find  that  the  actual  rioting  was  over;  but  the 
aftermath,  in  the  shape  of  bad  blood  and  court  cases,  lasted  a  long 
time.  I  forget  why  the  riot  had  begun.  That  year,  or  perhaps  later, 
there  was  also  some  trouble  over  the  Ram  Lila  celebrations  at  Allaha- 

116 


bad.  Probably  because  of  restrictions  about  music  before  mosques, 
these  celebrations,  involving  huge  processions  as  they  did,  were  aban 
doned  as  a  protest.  For  about  eight  years  now  the  Ram  Lila  has  not 
been  held  in  Allahabad,  and  the  greatest  festival  of  the  year  for 
hundreds  of  thousands  in  the  Allahabad  district  has  almost  become 
a  painful  memory.  How  well  I  remember  my  visits  to  it  when  I  was 
a  child!  How  excited  we  used  to  get!  And  the  vast  crowds  that  came 
to  see  it  from  all  over  the  district  and  even  from  other  towns.  It  was 
a  Hindu  festival,  but  it  was  an  open-air  affair,  and  Moslems  also 
swelled  the  crowds,  and  there  was  joy  and  lightheartedness  every 
where.  Trade  flourished.  Many  years  afterward,  when,  as  a  grown-up, 
I  visited  it,  I  was  not  excited,  and  the  procession  and  the  tableaux 
rather  bored  me.  My  standards  of  art  and  amusement  had  gone  up. 
But  even  then,  I  saw  how  the  great  crowds  appreciated  and  enjoyed 
the  show.  It  was  carnival  time  for  them.  And  now,  for  eight  or  nine 
years,  the  children  of  Allahabad,  not  to  mention  the  grown-ups,  have 
had  no  chance  of  seeing  this  show  and  having  a  bright  day  of  joyful 
excitement  in  the  dull  routine  of  their  lives.  And  all  because  of  trivial 
disputes  and  conflicts!  Surely  religion  and  the  spirit  of  religion  have 
much  to  answer  for.  What  kill-joys  they  have  been! 


XX 

MUNICIPAL  WORK 

FOR  TWO  YEARS  I  carried  on,  but  with  an  ever-increasing  reluctance, 
with  the  Allahabad  municipality.  My  term  of  office  as  chairman  was 
for  three  years.  Before  the  second  year  was  well  begun,  I  was  trying  to 
rid  myself  of  the  responsibility.  I  had  liked  the  work  and  given  a  great 
deal  of  my  time  and  thought  to  it.  I  had  met  with  a  measure  of  suc 
cess  and  gained  the  good  will  of  all  my  colleagues.  Even  the  Provincial 
Government  had  overcome  its  political  dislike  of  me  to  the  extent  of 
commending  some  of  my  municipal  activities.  And  yet  I  found  myself 
hedged  in,  obstructed,  and  prevented  from  doing  anything  really  worth 
while. 

It  was  not  deliberate  obstruction  on  anybody's  part;  indeed,  I  had  a 
surprising  amount  of  willing  co-operation.  But  on  the  one  side,  there 
was  the  Government  machine;  on  the  other,  the  apathy  of  the  members 

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of  the  municipality  as  well  as  the  public.  The  whole  steel  frame  of  mu 
nicipal  administration,  as  erected  by  Government,  prevented  radical 
growth  or  innovation.  The  financial  policy  was  such  that  the  munici 
pality  was  always  dependent  on  the  Government.  Most  radical  schemes 
of  taxation  or  social  development  were  not  permissible  under  the  exist 
ing  municipal  laws.  Even  such  schemes  as  were  legally  permissible  had 
to  be  sanctioned  by  Government;  and  only  the  optimists,  with  a  long 
stretch  of  years  before  them,  could  confidently  ask  for  and  await  this 
sanction.  It  amazed  me  to  find  out  how  slowly  and  laboriously  and  in 
efficiently  the  machinery  of  Government  moved  when  any  job  of  social 
construction,  or  of  nation  building  was  concerned.  There  was  no  slow 
ness  or  inefficiency,  however,  when  a  political  opponent  had  to  be 
curbed  or  struck  down.  The  contrast  was  marked. 

The  department  of  the  Provincial  Government  dealing  with  local 
self-government  was  presided  over  by  a  Minister;  but,  as  a  rule,  this 
presiding  genius  was  supremely  ignorant  of  municipal  affairs  or,  in 
deed,  of  any  public  affairs.  Indeed,  he  counted  for  little  and  was  largely 
ignored  by  his  own  department,  which  was  run  by  the  permanent 
officials  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service.  These  officials  were  influenced  by 
the  prevailing  conception  of  high  officials  in  India  that  government 
was  primarily  a  police  function.  Some  idea  of  authoritarian  paternalism 
colored  this  conception,  but  there  was  hardly  any  appreciation  of  the 
necessity  of  social  services  on  a  large  scale. 

Year  after  year  government  resolutions  and  officials  and  some  news 
papers  criticize  municipalities  and  local  boards,  and  point  out  their 
many  failings.  And  from  this  the  moral  is  drawn  that  democratic  in 
stitutions  are  not  suited  to  India.  Their  failings  are  obvious  enough, 
but  little  attention  is  paid  to  the  framework  within  which  they  have 
to  function.  This  framework  is  neither  democratic  nor  autocratic;  it  is 
a  cross  between  the  two,  and  has  the  disadvantages  of  both.  That  a 
central  government  should  have  certain  powers  of  supervision  and 
control  may  be  admitted,  but  this  can  only  fit  in  with  a  popular  local 
body  if  the  central  government  itself  is  democratic  and  responsive  to 
public  needs.  Where  this  is  not  so,  there  will  either  be  a  tussle  between 
the  two  or  a  tame  submission  to  the  will  of  the  central  authority,  which 
thus  exercises  power  without  in  any  way  shouldering  responsibility. 
This  is  obviously  unsatisfactory,  and  it  takes  away  from  the  reality  of 
popular  control.  Even  the  members  of  the  municipal  board  look  more 
to  the  central  authority  than  to  their  constituents,  and  the  public  also 
often  ignores  the  board.  Real  social  issues  hardly  ever  come  before  the 

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board,  chiefly  because  they  lie  outside  its  functions,  and  its  most  ob 
vious  activity  is  tax  collecting,  which  does  not  make  it  excessively 
popular. 

Whatever  the  reasons,  the  fact  remains  that  our  local  bodies  are  not, 
as  a  rule,  shining  examples  of  success  and  efficiency,  though  they  might, 
even  so,  compare  with  some  municipalities  in  advanced  democratic 
countries.  They  are  not  usually  corrupt;  they  are  just  inefficient,  and 
their  weak  point  is  nepotism,  and  their  perspectives  are  all  wrong.  All 
this  is  natural  enough;  for  democracy,  to  be  successful,  must  have  a 
background  of  informed  public  opinion  and  a  sense  of  responsibility. 
Instead,  we  have  an  all-pervading  atmosphere  of  authoritarianism,  and 
the  accompaniments  of  democracy  are  lacking.  There  is  no  mass  edu 
cational  system,  no  effort  to  build  up  public  opinion  based  on  knowl 
edge.  Inevitably  public  attention  turns  to  personal  or  communal  or 
other  petty  issues. 

The  main  interest  of  Government  in  municipal  administration  is 
that  "politics"  should  be  kept  out.  Any  resolution  of  sympathy  with 
the  national  movement  is  frowned  upon;  textbooks  which  might  have 
a  nationalist  flavor  are  not  permitted  in  the  municipal  schools,  even 
pictures  of  national  leaders  are  not  allowed  there.  A  national  flag  has 
to  be  pulled  down  on  pain  of  suppression  of  the  municipality. 

These  few  instances  show  how  much  freedom  our  municipal  and 
district  boards  have,  how  little  democratic  they  are.  The  attempt  to 
keep  out  political  opponents  from  all  municipal  and  local  services — of 
course  they  did  not  go  in  for  direct  government  service — deserves  a 
little  attention.  It  is  estimated  that  above  three  hundred  thousand  per 
sons  have  gone  to  prison  at  various  times  during  the  past  fourteen 
years;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that,  politics  apart,  these  three  hun 
dred  thousand  included  some  of  the  most  dynamic  and  idealistic,  the 
most  socially  minded  and  selfless  people  in  India.  They  had  push  and 
energy  and  the  ideal  of  service  to  a  cause.  They  were  thus  the  best  ma 
terial  from  which  a  public  department  or  utility  service  could  draw  its 
employees.  And  yet  Government  has  made  every  effort,  even  to  the 
extent  of  passing  laws,  to  keep  out  these  people,  and  so  to  punish  them 
and  those  who  sympathized  with  them.  It  prefers  and  pushes  on  the 
lap-dog  breed,  and  then  complains  of  the  inefficiency  of  our  local 
bodies.  And,  although  politics  are  said  to  be  outside  the  province  of 
local  bodies,  Government  has  no  objection  whatever  to  their  indulging 
in  politics  in  support  of  itself.  Teachers  in  local  board  schools  have  been 

119 


practically  compelled,  for  fear  of  losing  their  jobs,  to  go  out  in  the  vil 
lages  to  do  propaganda  on  behalf  of  Government. 

During  the  last  fifteen  years  Congress  workers  have  had  to  face 
many  difficult  positions;  they  have  shouldered  heavy  responsibilities; 
they  have,  after  all,  combated,  not  without  success,  a  powerful  and  en 
trenched  Government.  This  hard  course  of  training  has  given  them 
self-reliance  and  efficiency  and  strength  to  persevere;  it  has  provided 
them  with  the  very  qualities  of  which  a  long  and  emasculating  course 
of  authoritarian  government  had  deprived  the  Indian  people.  Of  course, 
the  Congress  movement,  like  all  mass  movements,  had,  and  has,  many 
undesirables — fools,  inefficient^,  and  worse.  But  I  have  no  doubt  what 
ever  that  an  average  Congress  worker  is  likely  to  be  far  more  efficient 
and  dynamic  than  another  person  of  similar  qualifications. 

There  is  one  aspect  of  this  matter  which  Government  and  its  ad 
visers  perhaps  do  not  appreciate.  The  attempt  to  deprive  Congress 
workers  of  all  jobs  and  to  shut  avenues  of  employment  to  them  is  wel 
comed  by  the  real  revolutionary.  The  average  Congressman  is  no 
toriously  not  a  revolutionary,  and  after  a  period  of  semirevolutionary 
action  he  resumes  his  humdrum  life  and  activities.  He  gets  entangled 
either  in  his  business  or  profession  or  in  the  mazes  of  local  politics. 
Larger  issues  seem  to  fade  off  in  his  mind,  and  revolutionary  ardor, 
such  as  it  was,  subsides.  Muscle  turns  to  fat,  and  spirit  to  a  love  of 
security.  Because  of  this  inevitable  tendency  of  middle-class  workers, 
it  has  always  been  the  effort  of  advanced  and  revolutionary-minded 
Congressmen  to  prevent  their  comrades  from  entering  the  constitu 
tional  mazes  of  the  legislatures  and  the  local  bodies,  or  accepting 
whole-time  jobs  which  prevent  them  from  effective  action.  The  Govern 
ment  has,  however,  now  come  to  their  help  to  some  extent  by  making 
it  a  little  more  difficult  for  the  Congress  worker  to  get  a  job,  and  it  is 
thus  likely  that  he  will  retain  some  of  his  revolutionary  ardor  or  even 
add  to  it. 

After  a  year  or  more  of  municipal  work  I  felt  that  I  was  not  utilizing 
my  energies  to  the  best  advantage  there.  The  most  I  could  do  was  to 
speed  up  work  and  make  it  a  little  more  efficient.  I  could  not  push 
through  any  worth-while  change.  I  wanted  to  resign  from  the  chair 
manship,  but  all  the  members  of  the  board  pressed  me  to  stay.  I  had 
received  uniform  kindness  and  courtesy  from  them,  and  I  found  it 
hard  to  refuse.  At  the  end  of  my  second  year,  however,  I  finally  re 
signed. 

This  was  in  1925.  In  the  autumn  of  that  year  my  wife  fell  seriously 

120 


ill,  and  for  many  months  she  lay  in  a  Lucknow  hospital.  The  Congress 
was  held  that  year  at  Cawnpore,  and,  somewhat  distracted,  I  rushed 
backward  and  forward  between  Allahabad,  Cawnpore,  and  Lucknow. 
(I  was  still  general  secretary  of  the  Congress.) 

Further  treatment  in  Switzerland  was  recommended  for  my  wife. 
I  welcomed  the  idea,  for  I  wanted  an  excuse  to  go  out  of  India  myself. 
My  mind  was  befogged,  and  no  clear  path  was  visible;  and  I  thought 
that,  perhaps,  if  I  was  far  from  India  I  could  see  things  in  better  per 
spective  and  lighten  up  the  dark  corners  of  my  mind. 

At  the  beginning  of  March  1926  we  sailed,  my  wife,  our  daughter, 
and  I,  from  Bombay  for  Venice.  With  us  on  the  same  boat  went  also 
my  sister  and  brother-in-law,  Ranjit  S.  Pandit.  They  had  planned  their 
European  trip  long  before  the  question  of  our  going  had  arisen. 


XXI 

IN  EUROPE 

I  WAS  GOING  back  to  Europe  after  more  than  thirteen  years — years  of 
war,  and  revolution,  and  tremendous  change.  The  old  world  I  knew 
had  expired  in  the  blood  and  horror  of  the  war,  and  a  new  world 
awaited  me.  I  expected  to  remain  in  Europe  for  six  or  seven  months  or, 
at  most,  till  the  end  of  the  year.  Actually  our  stay  lengthened  out  to  a 
year  and  nine  months. 

It  was  a  quiet  and  restful  period  for  both  my  mind  and  body.  We 
spent  it  chiefly  in  Switzerland,  in  Geneva,  and  in  a  mountain  sana 
torium  at  Montana.  My  younger  sister,  Krishna,  came  from  India  and 
joined  us  early  in  the  summer  of  1926,  and  remained  with  us  till  the 
end  of  our  stay  in  Europe.  I  could  not  leave  my  wife  for  long,  and 
so  I  could  only  pay  brief  visits  to  other  places.  Later,  when  my  wife  was 
better,  we  traveled  a  little  in  France,  England,  and  Germany.  On  our 
mountaintop,  surrounded  by  the  winter  snow,  I  felt  completely  cut  off 
from  India  as  well  as  the  European  world.  India,  and  Indian  happen 
ings,  seemed  especially  far  away.  I  was  a  distant  onlooker,  reading, 
watching,  following  events,  gazing  at  the  new  Europe,  its  politics,  eco 
nomics,  and  the  far  freer  human  relationships,  and  trying  to  under 
stand  them.  When  we  were  in  Geneva  I  was  naturally  interested  in  the 
activities  of  the  League  of  Nations  and  the  International  Labor  Office. 

121 


But  with  the  coming  of  winter.,  the  winter  sports  absorbed  my  atten 
tion;  for  some  months  they  were  my  chief  occupation  and  interest.  I 
had  done  ice  skating  previously,  but  skiing  was  a  new  experience,  and 
I  succumbed  to  its  fascination.  It  was  a  painful  experience  for  a  long 
time,  but  I  persisted  bravely,  in  spite  of  innumerable  falls,  and  I  came 
to  enjoy  it. 

Life  was  very  uneventful  on  the  whole.  The  days  went  by  and  my 
wife  gradually  gained  strength  and  health.  We  saw  few  Indians;  in 
deed,  we  saw  few  people  apart  from  the  little  colony  living  in  that 
mountain  resort.  But  in  the  course  of  the  year  and  three-quarters  that 
we  spent  in  Europe,  we  came  across  some  Indian  exiles  and  old  revolu 
tionaries  whose  names  had  been  familiar  to  me. 

I  must  say  that  I  was  not  greatly  impressed  by  most  of  the  Indian 
political  exiles  that  I  met  abroad,  although  I  admired  their  sacrifice, 
and  sympathized  with  their  sufferings  and  present  difficulties,  which 
are  very  real.  I  did  not  meet  many  of  them;  there  are  so  many  spread 
out  all  over  the  world.  Only  a  few  are  known  to  us  even  by  reputa 
tion,  and  the  others  have  dropped  out  of  the  Indian  world  and  been 
forgotten  by  their  countrymen  whom  they  sought  to  serve. 

There  were  many  other  Indians  floating  about  the  face  of  Europe, 
talking  a  revolutionary  language,  making  daring  and  fantastic  sug 
gestions,  asking  curious  questions.  They  seemed  to  have  the  impress  of 
the  British  Secret  Service  upon  them. 

We  met,  of  course,  many  Europeans  and  Americans.  From  Geneva 
we  went  on  a  pilgrimage  many  a  time  (the  first  time  with  a  letter  of 
introduction  from  Gandhiji)  to  the  Villa  Olga  at  Villeneuve,  to  see 
Romain  Holland.  Another  precious  memory  is  that  of  Ernst  Toller, 
the  young  German  poet  and  dramatist;  and  of  Roger  Baldwin,  of  the 
Civil  Liberties  Union  of  New  York.  In  Geneva  we  also  made  friends 
with  Dhan  Gopal  Mukerji,  the  author. 

Before  going  to  Europe  I  had  met  Frank  Buchman,  of  the  Oxford 
Group  Movement,  in  India.  He  had  given  me  some  of  the  literature  of 
his  movement,  and  I  had  read  it  with  amazement.  Sudden  conversions 
and  confessions,  and  a  revivalist  atmosphere  generally,  seemed  to  me 
to  go  ill  with  intellectuality.  I  could  not  make  out  how  some  persons, 
who  seemed  obviously  intelligent,  should  experience  these  strange  emo 
tions  and  be  affected  by  them  to  a  great  extent.  I  grew  curious.  I  met 
Frank  Buchman  again,  in  Geneva,  and  he  invited  me  to  one  of  his 
international  house  parties,  somewhere  in  Rumania,  I  think,  this  one 
was.  I  was  sorry  I  could  not  go  and  look  at  this  new  emotionalism  at 

122 


close  quarters.  My  curiosity  has  thus  remained  unsatisfied,  and  the 
more  I  read  of  the  growth  of  the  Oxford  Group  Movement  the  more  I 
wonder. 

Soon  after  our  arrival  in  Switzerland,  the  General  Strike  broke  out 
in  England.  I  was  vastly  excited,  and  my  sympathies  were  naturally 
all  on  the  strikers'  side.  The  collapse  of  the  strike,  after  a  few  days, 
came  almost  as  a  personal  blow.  Some  months  later  I  happened  to  visit 
England  for  a  few  days.  The  miners'  struggle  was  still  on,  and  London 
lay  in  semidarkness  at  night.  I  paid  a  brief  visit  to  a  mining  area — I 
think  it  was  somewhere  in  Derbyshire.  I  saw  the  haggard  and  pinched 
faces  of  the  men  and  women  and  children,  and,  more  revealing  still,  I 
saw  many  of  the  strikers  and  their  wives  being  tried  in  the  local  or 
county  court.  The  magistrates  were  themselves  directors  or  managers 
of  the  coal  mines,  and  they  tried  the  miners  and  sentenced  them  for 
trivial  offenses  under  certain  emergency  regulations.  One  case  espe 
cially  angered  me:  three  or  four  women,  with  babies  in  their  arms, 
were  brought  up  in  the  dock  for  the  offense  of  having  jeered  at  the 
blacklegs.  The  young  mothers  (and  their  babies)  were  obviously  miser 
able  and  undernourished;  the  long  struggle  had  told  upon  them  and 
enfeebled  them,  and  embittered  them  against  the  scabs  who  seemed  to 
take  the  bread  from  their  mouths. 

One  reads  often  about  class  justice,  and  in  India  nothing  is  com 
moner  than  this,  but  somehow  I  had  not  expected  to  come  across  such 
a  flagrant  example  of  it  in  England.  It  came  as  a  shock.  Another  fact 
that  I  noticed  with  some  surprise  was  the  general  atmosphere  of  fear 
among  the  strikers.  They  had  definitely  been  terrorized  by  the  police 
and  the  authorities,  and  they  put  up  very  meekly,  I  thought,  with 
rather  offensive  treatment.  It  is  true  that  they  were  thoroughly  ex 
hausted  after  a  long  struggle,  their  spirit  was  near  breaking  point,  their 
comrades  of  other  trade-unions  had  long  deserted  them.  But  still,  com 
pared  to  the  poor  Indian  worker,  there  was  a  world  of  difference.  The 
British  miners  had  still  a  powerful  organization,  the  sympathy  of  a 
nationwide,  and  indeed  worldwide,  trade-union  movement,  publicity, 
and  resources  of  many  kinds.  All  these  were  lacking  to  the  Indian 
worker.  And  yet  that  frightened  and  terrorized  look  in  the  two  had 
a  strange  resemblance. 

Toward  the  end  of  1926  I  happened  to  be  in  Berlin,  and  I  learned 
there  of  a  forthcoming  Congress  of  Oppressed  Nationalities,  which 
was  to  be  held  at  Brussels.  The  idea  appealed  to  me,  and  I  wrote  home, 
suggesting  that  the  Indian  National  Congress  might  take  official  part 

123 


in  the  Brussels  Congress.  My  suggestion  was  approved,  and  I  was 
appointed  the  Indian  Congress  representative  for  this  purpose. 

The  Brussels  Congress  was  held  early  in  February  1927.  I  do  not 
know  who  originated  the  idea.  Berlin  was  at  the  time  a  center  which 
attracted  political  exiles  and  radical  elements  from  aboard;  it  was  grad 
ually  catching  up  Paris  in  that  respect.  The  communist  element  was 
also  strong  there.  Ideas  of  some  common  action  between  oppressed  na 
tions  inter  sef  as  well  as  between  them  and  the  labor  left  wing,  were 
very  much  in  the  air.  It  was  felt  more  and  more  that  the  struggle  for 
freedom  was  a  common  one  against  the  thing  that  was  imperialism; 
and  joint  deliberation  and,  where  possible,  joint  action  were  desirable. 
The  colonial  Powers— England,  France,  Italy,  etc.— were  naturally 
hostile  to  any  such  attempts  being  made;  but  Germany  was,  since  the 
war,  no  longer  a  colonial  Power,  and  the  German  Government  viewed 
with  a  benevolent  neutrality  the  growth  of  agitation  in  the  colonies  and 
dependencies  of  other  Powers.  This  was  one  of  the  reasons  which  made 
Berlin  a  center  for  advanced  and  disaffected  elements  from  abroad. 
Among  these  the  most  prominent  and  active  were  the  Chinese  belong 
ing  to  the  left  wing  of  the  Kuomintang,  which  was  then  sweeping 
across  China,  the  old  feudal  elements  rolling  down  before  its  irresist 
ible  advance.  Even  the  imperialist  Powers  lost  their  aggressive  habits 
and  minatory  tone  before  this  new  phenomenon.  It  appeared  that  the 
solution  of  the  problem  of  China's  unity  and  freedom  could  not  long 
be  delayed.  The  Kuomintang  was  flushed  with  success,  but  it  knew 
the  difficulties  that  lay  ahead,  and  it  wanted  to  strengthen  itself  by  in 
ternational  propaganda.  Probably  it  was  the  left  wing  of  the  party,  co 
operating  with  communists  and  near-communists  abroad,  that  laid 
stress  on  this  propaganda,  both  to  strengthen  China's  national  position 
abroad  and  its  own  position  in  the  party  ranks  at  home.  The  party  had 
not  split  up  at  the  time  into  two  or  more  rival  and  bitterly  hostile 
groups,  and  presented,  to  all  outward  seeming,  a  united  front. 

The  European  representatives  of  the  Kuomintang,  therefore,  wel 
comed  the  idea  of  the  Congress  of  Oppressed  Nationalities;  perhaps 
they  even  originated  the  idea  jointly  with  some  other  people.  Some 
communists  and  near-communists  were  also  at  the  back  of  the  proposal 
right  from  the  beginning,  but,  as  a  whole,  the  communist  element  kept 
in  the  background.  Active  support  and  help  also  came  from  Latin 
America,  which  was  then  chafing  at  the  economic  imperialism  of  the 
United  States.  Mexico,  with  a  radical  President  and  policy,  was  eager 
to  take  the  lead  in  a  Latin-American  bloc  against  the  United  States; 

124 


and  Mexico,  therefore,  took  great  interest  in  the  Brussels  Congress. 
Officially  the  Government  could  not  take  part,  but  it  sent  one  of  its 
leading  diplomats  to  be  present  as  a  benevolent  observer. 

There  were  also  present  at  Brussels  representatives  from  the  national 
organizations  of  Java,  Indo-China,  Palestine,  Syria,  Egypt,  Arabs  from 
North  Africa,  and  African  Negroes.  Then  there  were  many  left-wing 
labor  organizations  represented;  and  several  well-known  men  who  had 
played  a  leading  part  in  European  labor  struggles  for  a  generation, 
were  present.  Communists  were  there  also,  and  they  took  an  important 
part  in  the  proceedings;  they  came  not  as  communists  but  as  repre 
sentatives  of  trade-unions  or  similar  organizations. 

George  Lansbury  was  elected  president,  and  he  delivered  an  elo 
quent  address.  That  in  itself  was  proof  that  the  Congress  was  not  so 
rabid  after  all,  nor  was  it  merely  hitched  on  to  the  star  of  communism. 
But  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  gathering  was  friendly  toward  the  com 
munists,  and,  even  though  agreement  might  be  lacking  on  some  mat 
ters,  there  appeared  to  be  several  common  grounds  for  action. 

Mr.  Lansbury  agreed  to  be  president  also  of  the  permanent  organiza 
tion  that  was  formed — the  League  against  Imperialism.  But  he  re 
pented  of  his  rash  behavior  soon,  or  perhaps  his  colleagues  of  the  Brit 
ish  Labour  party  did  not  approve  of  it.  The  Labour  party  was  "His 
Majesty's  Opposition"  then,  soon  to  blossom  out  as  "His  Majesty's 
Government,"  and  future  Cabinet  Ministers  cannot  dabble  in  risky 
and  revolutionary  politics.  Mr.  Lansbury  resigned  from  the  presidency 
on  the  ground  of  being  too  busy  for  it;  he  even  resigned  from  the 
membership  of  the  League.  I  was  hurt  by  this  sudden  change  in  a 
person  whose  speech  I  had  admired  only  two  or  three  months  earlier. 

The  League  against  Imperialism  had,  however,  quite  a  number  of 
distinguished  persons  as  its  patrons.  Einstein  was  one  of  them,  and 
Madame  Sun  Yat-sen,  and  I  think,  Remain  Holland.  Many  months 
later  Einstein  resigned,  as  he  disagreed  with  the  pro-Arab  policy  of  the 
League  in  the  Arab-Jewish  quarrels  in  Palestine. 

The  Brussels  Congress,  as  well  as  the  subsequent  Committee  meet 
ings  of  the  League,  which  were  held  in  various  places  from  time  to 
time,  helped  me  to  understand  some  of  the  problems  of  colonial  and 
dependent  countries.  They  gave  me  also  an  insight  into  the  inner 
conflicts  of  the  Western  labor  world.  I  knew  something  about  them  al 
ready;  I  had  read  about  them,  but  there  was  no  reality  behind  my 
knowledge,  as  there  had  been  no  personal  contacts.  I  had  some  such 
contacts  now,  and  sometimes  had  to  face  problems  which  reflected  these 

125 


inner  conflicts.  As  between  the  labor  worlds  of  the  Second  Interna 
tional  and  the  Third  International,  my  sympathies  were  with  the  latter. 
The  whole  record  of  the  Second  International  from  the  war  onward 
filled  me  with  distaste,  and  we  in  India  had  had  sufficient  personal 
experience  of  the  methods  of  one  of  its  strongest  supports — the  British 
Labour  party.  So  I  turned  inevitably  with  good  will  toward  commu 
nism,  for,  whatever  its  faults,  it  was  at  least  not  hypocritical  and  not 
imperialistic.  It  was  not  a  doctrinal  adherence,  as  I  did  not  know  much 
about  the  fine  points  of  communism,  my  acquaintance  being  limited 
at  the  time  to  its  broad  features.  These  attracted  me,  as  also  the  tre 
mendous  changes  taking  place  in  Russia.  But  communists  often  irri 
tated  me  by  their  dictatorial  ways,  their  aggressive  and  rather  vulgar 
methods,  their  habit  of  denouncing  everybody  who  did  not  agree  with 
them.  This  reaction  was  no  doubt  due,  as  they  would  say,  to  my  own 
bourgeois  education  and  up-bringing. 

It  was  curious  how,  in  our  League  against  Imperialism  committee 
meetings,  I  would  usually  be  on  the  side  of  the  Anglo-American  mem 
bers  on  petty  matters  of  argument.  There  was  a  certain  similarity  in 
our  outlook  in  regard  to  method  at  least.  We  would  both  object  to 
declamatory  and  long-winded  resolutions,  which  resembled  manifestos. 
We  preferred  something  simpler  and  shorter,  but  the  Continental 
tradition  was  against  this.  There  was  often  difference  of  opinion  be 
tween  the  communist  elements  and  the  non-communists.  Usually  we 
agreed  on  a  compromise.  Later  on,  some  of  us  returned  to  our  homes 
and  could  not  attend  any  further  committee  meetings. 

The  Brussels  Congress  was  viewed  with  some  consternation  by  the 
foreign  and  colonial  offices  of  the  imperialist  Powers.  The  Congress 
itself  was  probably  full  of  international  spies,  many  of  the  delegates 
even  representing  various  secret  services.  We  had  an  amusing  instance 
of  this.  An  American  friend  of  mine,  who  was  in  Paris,  had  a  visit 
from  a  Frenchman  who  belonged  to  the  French  secret  service.  It  was 
quite  a  friendly  visit  to  inquire  about  certain  matters.  When  he  had 
finished  his  inquiries  he  asked  the  American  if  he  did  not  recognize 
him,  for  they  had  met  previously.  The  American  looked  hard,  but  he 
had  to  admit  that  he  could  not  place  him  at  all.  The  secret  service  agent 
then  told  him  that  he  had  met  him  at  the  Brussels  Congress  as  a  Negro 
delegate,  with  his  face,  hands,  etc.,  all  blacked  over! 

One  of  the  meetings  of  the  Committee  of  the  League  against  Im 
perialism  took  place  at  Cologne,  and  I  attended  it.  After  the  meeting 
was  over,  we  were  asked  to  go  to  Diisseldorf,  near  by,  to  attend  a 

126 


Sacco-Vanzetti  meeting.  As  we  were  returning  from  that  meeting,  we 
were  asked  to  show  our  passports  to  the  police.  Most  of  the  people  had 
their  passports  with  them,  but  I  had  left  mine  at  the  hotel  in  Cologne 
as  we  had  only  come  for  a  few  hours  to  Diisseldorf .  I  was  thereupon 
marched  to  a  police  station.  Fortunately  for  me  I  had  companions  in 
distress — an  Englishman  and  his  wife,  who  also  had  left  their  passport 
in  Cologne.  After  about  an  hour's  wait,  during  which  probably  tele 
phonic  inquiries  were  made,  the  police  chief  was  graciously  pleased  to 
allow  us  to  depart. 

The  League  against  Imperialism  veered  more  toward  communism 
in  later  years,  though  at  no  time,  so  far  as  I  know,  did  it  lose  its  indi 
vidual  character.  I  could  only  remain  in  distant  touch  with  it  by  means 
of  correspondence.  In  1931,  because  of  my  part  in  the  Delhi  truce  be 
tween  the  Congress  and  the  Government  of  India,  it  grew  exceed 
ingly  angry  with  me,  and  excommunicated  me  with  bell,  book,  and 
candle — or,  to  be  more  accurate,  it  expelled  me  by  some  kind  of  a  reso 
lution.  I  must  confess  that  it  had  great  provocation,  but  it  might  have 
given  me  some  chance  of  explaining  my  position. 

In  the  summer  of  1927  my  father  came  to  Europe.  I  met  him  at 
Venice,  and  during  the  next  few  months  we  were  often  together.  All 
of  us — my  father,  my  wife,  my  young  sister,  and  I — paid  a  brief  visit  to 
Moscow  in  November  during  the  tenth  anniversary  celebrations  of  the 
Soviet.  It  was  a  very  brief  visit,  just  three  or  four  days  in  Moscow, 
decided  upon  at  the  last  moment.  But  we  were  glad  we  went,  for  even 
that  glimpse  was  worth  while.  It  did  not,  and  could  not,  teach  us  much 
about  the  new  Russia,  but  it  did  give  us  a  background  for  our  reading. 
To  my  father  all  such  Soviet  and  collectivist  ideas  were  wholly  novel. 
His  whole  training  had  been  legal  and  constitutional,  and  he  could  not 
easily  get  out  of  that  framework.  But  he  was  definitely  impressed  by 
what  he  saw  in  Moscow. 

Our  stay  in  Europe  had  been  unduly  prolonged.  Probably  we  would 
have  returned  home  sooner  but  for  father's  visiting  Europe.  It  was  our 
intention  to  spend  some  time  in  southeastern  Europe  and  Turkey  and 
Egypt  on  our  way  back.  But  there  was  no  time  for  this  then,  and  I 
was  eager  to  be  back  in  time  for  the  next  Congress  session,  which  was 
going  to  be  held  in  Madras  at  Christmastime.  We  sailed  from  Mar 
seilles,  my  wife,  sister,  daughter,  and  I,  early  in  December  for  Colombo. 
My  father  remained  in  Europe  for  another  three  months. 


127 


XXII 

EXPERIENCE  OF  LATHEE  CHARGES 

I  WAS  RETURNING  from  Europe  in  good  physical  and  mental  condition. 
My  wife  had  not  yet  wholly  recovered,  but  she  was  far  better,  and  that 
relieved  me  of  anxiety  on  her  score.  I  felt  full  of  energy  and  vitality, 
and  the  sense  of  inner  conflict  and  frustration  that  had  oppressed  me 
so  often  previously  was,  for  the  time  being,  absent.  My  outlook  was 
wider,  and  nationalism  by  itself  seemed  to  me  definitely  a  narrow  and 
insufficient  creed.  Political  freedom,  independence,  were  no  doubt  es 
sential,  but  they  were  steps  only  in  the  right  direction;  without  social 
freedom  and  a  socialistic  structure  of  society  and  the  State,  neither  the 
country  nor  the  individual  could  develop  much.  I  felt  I  had  a  clearer 
perception  of  world  affairs,  more  grip  on  the  present-day  world,  ever 
changing  as  it  was.  I  had  read  largely,  not  only  on  current  affairs  and 
politics,  but  on  many  other  subjects  that  interested  me,  cultural  and 
scientific.  I  found  the  vast  political,  economic,  and  cultural  changes 
going  on  in  Europe  and  America  a  fascinating  study.  Soviet  Russia, 
despite  certain  unpleasant  aspects,  attracted  me  greatly,  and  seemed 
to  hold  forth  a  message  of  hope  to  the  world.  Europe,  in  the  middle 
twenties,  was  trying  to  settle  down  in  a  way;  the  great  depression 
was  yet  to  come.  But  I  came  back  with  the  conviction  that  this  settling 
down  was  superficial  only,  and  big  eruptions  and  -  mighty  changes 
were  in  store  for  Europe  and  the  world  in  the  near  future. 

To  train  and  prepare  our  country  for  these  world  events — to  keep  in 
readiness  for  them,  as  far  as  we  could— seemed  to  be  the  immediate 
task.  The  preparation  was  largely  an  ideological  one.  First  of  all,  there 
should  be  no  doubt  about  the  objective  of  political  independence.  This 
should  be  clearly  understood  as  the  only  possible  political  goal  for  us; 
something  radically  different  from  the  vague  and  confusing  talk  of 
Dominion  status.  Then  there  was  the  social  goal.  It  would  be  too  much, 
I  felt,  to  expect  the  Congress  to  go  far  in  this  direction  just  then.  The 
Congress  was  a  purely  political  and  nationalistic  body,  unused  to  think 
ing  on  other  lines.  But  a  beginning  might  be  made.  Outside  the  Con 
gress,  in  labor  circles  and  among  the  young,  the  idea  could  be  pushed 
on  much  further.  For  this  purpose  I  wanted  to  keep  myself  free  from 
Congress  office,  and  I  had  a  vague  idea  also  of  spending  some  months 
in  remote  rural  areas  to  study  their  conditions.  But  this  was  not  to  be, 
and  events  were  to  drag  me  again  into  the  heart  of  Congress  politics. 

128 


Immediately  on  our  arrival  in  Madras  I  was  caught  in  the  whirl 
I  presented  a  bunch  of  resolutions  to  the  Working  Committee—resolu 
tions  on  independence,  war  danger,  association  with  the  League  against 
Imperialism,  etc.— and  nearly  all  of  these  were  accepted  and  made  into 
official  Working  Committee  resolutions.  I  had  to  put  them  forward  at 
the  open  session  of  the  Congress,  and,  to  my  surprise,  they  were  all  al 
most  unanimously  adopted.  The  Independence  resolution  was  sup 
ported  even  by  Mrs.  Annie  Besant.  This  all-round  support  was  very 
gratifying,  but  I  had  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  the  resolutions 
were  either  not  understood  for  what  they  were,  or  were  distorted  to 
mean  something  else.  That  this  was  so  became  apparent  soon  after 
the  Congress,  when  a  controversy  arose  on  the  meaning  of  the  Inde 
pendence  resolution. 

These  resolutions  of  mine  were  somewhat  different  from  the  usual 
Congress  resolutions;  they  represented  a  new  outlook.  Many  Congress 
men  no  doubt  liked  them,  some  had  a  vague  dislike  for  them,  but  not 
enough  to  make  them  oppose.  Probably  the  latter  thought  that  they 
were  academic  resolutions,  making  little  difference  either  way,  and  the 
best  way  to  get  rid  of  them  was  to  pass  them  and  move  on  to  some 
thing  more  important.  The  Independence  resolution  thus  did  not 
represent  then,  as  it  did  a  year  or  two  later,  a  vital  and  irrepressible 
urge  on  the  part  of  the  Congress;  it  represented  a  widespread  and 
growing  sentiment. 

Gandhiji  was  in  Madras,  and  he  attended  the  open  Congress  sessions, 
but  he  did  not  take  any  part  in  the  shaping  of  policy.  He  did  not  at 
tend  the  meetings  of  the  Working  Committee,  of  which  he  was  a 
member.  That  had  been  his  general  political  attitude  in  the  Congress 
since  the  dominance  of  the  Swaraj  party.  But  he  was  frequently  con 
sulted,  and  little  of  importance  was  done  without  his  knowledge.  I  do 
not  know  how  far  the  resolutions  I  put  before  the  Congress  met  with 
his  approval.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  he  disliked  them,  not  so  much 
because  of  what  they  said,  but  because  of  their  general  trend  and  out 
look.  He  did  not,  however,  criticize  them  on  any  occasion. 

The  unreality  of  the  Independence  resolution  came  out  in  that  very 
session  of  the  Congress,  when  another  resolution  condemning  the 
Simon  Commission  and  appealing  for  its  boycott  was  considered.  As  a 
corollary  to  this  it  was  proposed  to  convene  an  All-Parties  Conference, 
which  was  to  draw  up  a  constitution  for  India.  It  was  manifest  that  the 
moderate  groups,  with  whom  co-operation  was  sought,  could  never 

129 


think  in  terms  of  independence.  The  very  utmost  they  could  go  to  was 
some  form  of  Dominion  status. 

I  stepped  back  into  the  Congress  secretaryship.  There  were  personal 
considerations— the  desire  of  the  president  for  the  year,  Dr.  M.  A. 
Ansari,  who  was  an  old  and  dear  friend — and  the  fact  that,  as  many 
of  my  resolutions  had  been  passed,  I  ought  to  see  them  through.  It 
was  true  that  the  resolution  on  the  All-Parties  Conference  had  partly 
neutralized  the  effect  of  my  resolutions.  Still,  much  remained.  The  real 
reason  for  my  accepting  office  again  was  my  fear  that  the  Congress 
might,  through  the  instrumentality  of  the  All-Parties  Conference,  or 
because  of  other  reasons,  slide  back  to  a  more  moderate  and  com 
promising  position.  It  seemed  to  be  in  a  hesitant  mood,  swinging  al 
ternately  from  one  extreme  to  another.  I  wanted  to  prevent,  as  far  as 
I  could,  the  swing  back  to  moderation  and  to  hold  on  to  the  inde 
pendence  objective. 

The  National  Congress  always  attracts  a  large  number  of  side  shows 
at  its  annual  sessions.  One  of  the  side  shows  at  Madras  was  a  Repub 
lican  Conference  which  held  its  first  (and  last)  sessions  that  year.  I  was 
asked  to  preside.  The  idea  appealed  to  me,  as  I  considered  myself  a  re 
publican.  But  I  hesitated,  as  I  did  not  know  who  was  at  the  back  of  the 
new  venture,  and  I  did  not  want  to  associate  myself  with  mushroom 
growths.  I  presided,  eventually,  but  later  I  repented  of  this,  for  the  Re 
publican  Conference  turned  out  to  be,  like  so  many  others,  a  still-born 
afiair.  For  several  months  I  tried,  and  tried  in  vain,  to  get  the  text  of 
the  resolutions  passed  by  it.  It  is  amazing  how  many  of  our  people 
love  to  sponsor  new  undertakings  and  then  ignore  them  and  leave 
them  to  shift  for  themselves.  There  is  much  in  the  criticism  that  we 
are  not  a  persevering  lot. 

I  have  been  accused  by  some  leaders  of  the  Hindu  Mahasabha  of  my 
ignorance  of  Hindu  sentiments  because  of  my  defective  education  and 
general  background  of  "Persian"  culture.  What  culture  I  possess,  or 
whether  I  possess  any  at  all,  is  a  little  difficult  for  me  to  say.  Persian, 
as  a  language,  unhappily,  I  do  not  even  know.  But  it  is  true  that  my 
father  had  grown  up  in  an  Indo-Persian  cultural  atmosphere,  which 
was  the  legacy  in  north  India  of  the  old  Delhi  court,  and  of  which, 
even  in  these  degenerate  days,  Delhi  and  Lucknow  are  the  two  chief 
centers.  Kashmiri  Brahmans  had  a  remarkable  capacity  for  adaptation, 
and  coming  down  to  the  Indian  plains  and  finding  that  this  Indo- 
Persian  culture  was  predominant  at  the  time,  they  took  to  it,  and  pro 
duced  a  number  of  fine  scholars  in  Persian  and  Urdu.  Later  they 

130 


adapted  themselves  with  equal  rapidity  to  the  changing  order,  when  a 
knowledge  of  English  and  the  elements  of  European  culture  became 
necessary. 

The  year  1928  was,  politically,  a  full  year,  with  plenty  of  activity  all 
over  the  country.  There  seemed  to  be  a  new  impulse  moving  the  peo 
ple  forward,  a  new  stir  that  was  equally  present  in  the  most  varied 
groups.  Probably  the  change  had  been  going  on  gradually  during  my 
long  absence  from  the  country;  it  struck  me  as  very  considerable  on 
my  return.  Early  in  1926,  India  was  still  quiescent,  passive,  perhaps  not 
fully  recovered  from  the  effort  of  1919-1922;  in  1928  she  seemed  fresh, 
active,  and  full  of  suppressed  energy.  Everywhere  there  was  evidence 
of  this:  among  the  industrial  workers,  the  peasantry,  middle-class 
youth,  and  the  intelligentsia  generally.  The  trade-union  movement  had 
grown  greatly,  and  the  All-India  Trade-Union  Congress,  established 
seven  or  eight  years  previously,  was  already  a  strong  and  representative 
body.  The  peasantry  was  also  astir.  This  was  noticeable  in  the  United 
Provinces  and  especially  in  Oudh,  where  large  gatherings  of  protesting 
tenants  became  common.  Another  very  noticeable  feature  of  the  India 
of  1928  was  the  growth  of  the  youth  movement.  Everywhere  youth 
leagues  were  being  established,  youth  conferences  were  being  held. 

Wherever  the  Commission  went  it  was  greeted  by  hostile  crowds 
and  the  cry  of  "Simon,  go  back,"  and  thus  vast  numbers  of  the  Indian 
masses  became  acquainted  not  only  with  Sir  John  Simon's  name  but 
with  two  words  of  the  English  language,  the  only  two  they  knew. 
These  words  must  have  become  a  hated  obsession  for  the  members  of 
the  Commission.  The  story  is  related  that  once,  when  they  were  stay 
ing  at  the  Western  Hostel  in  New  Delhi,  the  refrain  seemed  to  come 
to  them  in  the  night  out  of  the  darkness.  They  were  greatly  irritated 
at  being  pursued  in  this  way,  even  at  night.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
noise  that  disturbed  them  came  from  the  jackals  that  infest  the  waste 
places  of  the  imperial  capital. 

The  All-Parties  Conference  met  at  Lucknow  to  consider  the  report 
of  their  committee.  Again  some  of  us  were  in  a  dilemma,  for  we  did 
not  wish  to  come  in  the  way  of  a  communal  settlement,  if  that  was 
possible,  and  yet  we  were  not  prepared  to  yield  on  the  question  of  inde 
pendence.  We  begged  that  the  conference  leave  this  question  open  so 
that  each  constituent  part  could  have  liberty  of  action  on  this  issue — 
the  Congress  adhering  to  independence  and  the  more  moderate  groups 
to  Dominion  status.  But  my  father  had  set  his  heart  on  the  report,  and 
he  would  not  yield,  nor  perhaps  could  he  under  the  circumstances.  I 


was  thereupon  asked  by  our  independence  group  in  the  Conference — 
and  this  was  a  large  one — to  make  a  statement  to  the  Conference  on  its 
behalf,  dissociating  ourselves  completely  from  everything  that  lowered 
the  objective  of  independence.  But  we  made  it  further  clear  that  we 
would  not  be  obstructive  as  we  did  not  wish  to  come  in  the  way  of  the 
communal  statement. 

This  was  not  a  very  effective  line  to  adopt  on  such  a  major  issue;  at 
best  it  was  a  negative  gesture.  A  positive  side  was  given  to  our  attitude 
by  our  founding  that  very  day  the  Independence  for  India  League. 

The  Simon  Commission  was  moving  about,  pursued  by  black  flags 
and  hostile  crowds  shouting,  "Go  back."  Occasionally  there  were 
minor  conflicts  between  the  police  and  the  crowds.  Lahore  brought 
matters  to  a  head  and  suddenly  sent  a  thrill  of  indignation  throughout 
the  country.  The  anti-Simon  Commission  demonstration  there  was 
headed  by  Lala  Lajpat  Rai;  and,  as  he  stood  by  the  roadside  in  front 
of  the  thousands  of  demonstrators,  he  was  assaulted  and  beaten  on  his 
chest  with  a  baton  by  a  young  English  police  officer.  There  had  been 
no  attempt  whatever  on  the  part  of  the  crowd,  much  less  on  the  part 
of  Lalaji,  to  indulge  in  any  methods  of  violence.  Even  so,  as  he  stood 
peacefully  by,  he  and  many  of  his  companions  were  severely  beaten 
by  the  police.  Anyone  who  takes  part  in  street  demonstrations  runs  the 
risk  of  a  conflict  with  the  police,  and,  though  our  demonstrations  were 
almost  always  perfectly  peaceful,  Lalaji  must  have  known  of  this  risk 
and  taken  it  consciously.  But  still,  the  manner  of  the  assault,  the  need 
less  brutality  of  it,  came  as  a  shock  to  vast  numbers  of  people  in  India. 
Those  were  the  days  when  we  were  not  used  to  lathee  charges  by  the 
police;  our  sensitiveness  had  not  been  blunted  by  repeated  brutality. 
To  find  that  even  the  greatest  of  our  leaders,  the  foremost  and  most 
popular  man  in  the  Punjab,  could  be  so  treated  seemed  little  short  of 
monstrous,  and  a  dull  anger  spread  all  over  the  country,  especially  in 
north  India.  How  helpless  we  were,  how  despicable  when  we  could 
not  even  protect  the  honor  of  our  chosen  leaders! 

The  physical  injury  to  Lalaji  had  been  serious  enough,  as  he  had 
been  hit  on  the  chest  and  he  had  long  suffered  from  heart  disease. 
Probably,  in  the  case  of  a  healthy  young  man  the  injury  would  not 
have  been  great,  but  Lalaji  was  neither  young  nor  healthy.  What  effect 
this  physical  injury  had  on  his  death  a  few  weeks  later  it  is  hardly 
possible  to  say  definitely,  though  his  doctors  were  of  opinion  that  it 
hastened  the  end.  But  I  think  that  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  the 
mental  shock  which  accompanied  the  physical  injury  had  a  tremen- 

132 


dous  effect  on  Lalaji.  He  felt  angry  and  bitter,  not  so  much  at  the 
personal  humiliation,  as  at  the  national  humiliation  involved  in  the 
assault  on  him. 

It  was  this  sense  of  national  humiliation  that  weighed  on  the  mind 
of  India,  and  when  Lalaji's  death  came  soon  after,  inevitably  it  was 
connected  with  the  assault,  and  sorrow  itself  gave  pride  of  place  to 
anger  and  indignation.  It  is  well  to  appreciate  this,  for  only  so  can  we 
have  some  understanding  of  subsequent  events,  of  the  phenomenon  of 
Bhagat  Singh,  and  of  his  sudden  and  amazing  popularity  in  north 
India.  It  is  very  easy  and  very  fatuous  to  condemn  persons  or  acts  with 
out  seeking  to  understand  the  springs  of  action,  the  causes  that  under 
lie  them.  Bhagat  Singh  was  not  previously  well  known;  he  did  not 
become  popular  because  of  an  act  of  violence,  an  act  of  terrorism.  Ter 
rorists  have  flourished  in  India,  off  and  on,  for  nearly  thirty  years,  and 
at  no  time,  except  in  the  early  days  in  Bengal,  did  any  of  them  attain 
a  fraction  of  that  popularity  which  came  to  Bhagat  Singh.  This  is  a 
patent  fact  which  cannot  be  denied;  it  has  to  be  admitted.  And  another 
fact,  which  is  equally  obvious,  is  that  terrorism,  in  spite  of  occasional 
recrudescence,  has  no  longer  any  real  appeal  for  the  youth  of  India. 
Fifteen  years'  stress  on  nonviolence  has  changed  the  whole  back 
ground  in  India  and  made  the  masses  much  more  indifferent  to,  and 
even  hostile  to,  the  idea  of  terrorism  as  a  method  of  political  action. 
Even  the  classes  from  which  the  terrorists  are  usually  drawn,  the  lower 
middle-classes  and  intelligentsia,  have  been  powerfully  affected  by  the 
Congress  propaganda  against  methods  of  violence.  Their  active  and 
impatient  elements,  who  think  in  terms  of  revolutionary  action,  also 
realize  fully  now  that  revolution  does  not  come  through  terrorism,  and 
that  terrorism  is  an  outworn  and  profitless  method  which  comes  in  the 
way  of  real  revolutionary  action.  Terrorism  is  a  dying  thing  in  India 
and  elsewhere,  not  because  of  Government  coercion,  which  can  only 
suppress  and  bottle  up,  not  eradicate,  but  because  of  basic  causes  and 
world  events.  Terrorism  usually  represents  the  infancy  of  a  revolution 
ary  urge  in  a  country.  That  stage  passes,  and  with  it  passes  terrorism  as 
an  important  phenomenon.  Occasional  outbursts  may  continue  because 
of  local  causes  or  individual  suppressions.  India  has  undoubtedly 
passed  that  stage,  and  no  doubt  even  the  occasional  outbursts  will 
gradually  die  out.  But  this  does  not  mean  that  all  people  in  India  have 
ceased  to  believe  in  methods  of  violence.  They  have,  very  largely, 
ceased  to  believe  in  individual  violence  and  terrorism,  but  many,  no 
doubt,  still  think  that  a  time  may  come  when  organized,  violent 

133 


methods  may  be  necessary  for  gaining  freedom,  as  they  have  often 
been  necessary  in  other  countries.  That  is  today  an  academic  issue 
which  time  alone  will  put  to  the  test;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  terror 
istic  methods. 

Bhagat  Singh  thus  did  not  become  popular  because  of  his  act  of 
terrorism,  but  because  he  seemed  to  vindicate,  for  the  moment,  the 
honor  of  Lala  Lajpat  Rai,  and  through  him  of  the  nation.  He  became 
a  symbol;  the  act  was  forgotten,  the  symbol  remained,  and  within  a 
few  months  each  town  and  village  of  the  Punjab,  and  to  a  lesser  extent 
in  the  rest  of  northern  India,  resounded  with  his  name.  Innumerable 
songs  grew  up  about  him,  and  the  popularity  that  the  man  achieved 
was  something  amazing. 

The  assault  on  Lala  Lajpat  Rai,  and  his  subsequent  death,  increased 
the  vigor  of  the  demonstrations  against  the  Simon  Commission  in  the 
places  which  it  subsequently  visited.  It  was  due  in  Lucknow,  and  the 
local  Congress  committee  made  extensive  preparations  for  its  "recep 
tion."  Huge  processions,  meetings,  and  demonstrations  were  organized 
many  days  in  advance,  both  as  propaganda  and  as  rehearsals  for  the 
actual  show.  I  went  to  Lucknow  and  was  present  at  some  of  these. 
The  success  of  these  preliminary  demonstrations,  which  were  perfectly 
orderly  and  peaceful,  evidently  nettled  the  authorities,  and  they  began 
to  obstruct  and  issue  orders  against  the  taking  out  of  processions  in 
certain  areas.  It  was  in  this  connection  that  I  had  a  new  experience, 
and  my  body  felt  the  baton  and  lathee  blows  of  the  police. 

Processions  had  been  prohibited,  ostensibly  to  avoid  any  interference 
with  the  traffic.  We  decided  to  give  no  cause  for  complaint  on  this 
score,  and  arranged  for  small  groups  of  sixteen,  as  far  as  I  can  remem 
ber,  to  go  separately,  along  unfrequented  routes  to  the  meeting  place. 
Technically,  this  was  no  doubt  a  breach  of  the  order,  for  sixteen  with 
a  flag  were  a  procession.  I  led  one  of  the  groups  of  sixteen  and,  after 
a  big  gap,  came  another  such  group  under  the  leadership  of  my  col- 
lea'gue,  Govind  Ballabh  Pant.  My  group  had  gone  perhaps  about  two 
hundred  yards — the  road  was  a  deserted  one — when  we  heard  the 
clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  behind  us.  We  looked  back  to  find  a  bunch  of 
mounted  police,  probably  two  or  three  dozen  in  number,  bearing  down 
upon  us  at  a  rapid  pace.  They  were  soon  right  upon  us,  and  the  im 
pact  of  the  horses  broke  up  our  little  column  of  sixteen.  The  mounted 
policemen  then  started  belaboring  our  volunteers  with  huge  batons  or 
truncheons,  and,  instinctively,  the  volunteers  sought  refuge  on  the  side 
walks,  and  some  even  entered  the  petty  shops.  They  were  pursued  and 


beaten  down.  My  own  instinct  had  urged  me  to  seek  safety  when  I 
saw  the  horses  charging  down  upon  us;  it  was  a  discouraging  sight. 
But  then,  I  suppose,  some  other  instinct  held  me  to  my  place,  and  I 
survived  the  first  charge,  which  had  been  checked  by  the  volunteers 
behind  me.  Suddenly  I  found  myself  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  road; 
a  few  yards  away  from  me,  in  various  directions,  were  the  policemen 
beating  down  our  volunteers.  Automatically,  I  began  moving  slowly 
to  the  side  of  the  road  to  be  less  conspicuous,  but  again  I  stopped  and 
had  a  little  argument  with  myself,  and  decided  that  it  would  be  un 
becoming  for  me  to  move  away.  All  this  was  a  matter  of  a  few  seconds 
only,  but  I  have  the  clearest  recollections  of  that  conflict  within  me 
and  the  decision,  prompted  by  my  pride,  I  suppose,  which  could  not 
tolerate  the  idea  of  my  behaving  like  a  coward.  Yet  the  line  between 
cowardice  and  courage  was  a  thin  one,  and  I  might  well  have  been 
on  the  other  side.  Hardly  had  I  so  decided,  when  I  looked  round  to 
find  that  a  mounted  policeman  was  trotting  up  to  me,  brandishing  his 
long  new  baton.  I  told  him  to  go  ahead,  and  turned  my  head  away — 
again  an  instinctive  effort  to  save  the  head  and  face.  He  gave  me  two 
resounding  blows  on  the  back.  I  felt  stunned,  and  my  body  quivered 
all  over,  but,  to  my  surprise  and  satisfaction,  I  found  that  I  was  still 
standing.  The  police  force  was  withdrawn  soon  after  and  made  to 
block  the  road  in  front  of  us.  Our  volunteers  gathered  together  again, 
many  of  them  bleeding  and  with  split  skulls,  and  we  were  joined  by 
Pant  and  his  lot,  who  had  also  been  belabored,  and  all  of  us  sat  down 
facing  the  police.  So  we  sat  for  an  hour  or  so,  and  it  became  dark.  On 
the  one  side,  various  high  officials  gathered;  on  the  other,  large  crowds 
began  to  assemble  as  the  news  spread.  Ultimately,  the  officials  agreed 
to  allow  us  to  go  by  our  original  route,  and  we  went  that  way  with 
the  mounted  policemen,  who  had  charged  us  and  belabored  us,  going 
ahead  of  us  as  a  kind  of  escort. 

I  have  written  about  this  petty  incident  in  some  detail  because  of 
its  effect  on  me.  The  bodily  pain  I  felt  was  quite  forgotten  in  a  feeling 
of  exhilaration  that  I  was  physically  strong  enough  to  face  and  bear 
lathee  blows.  And  a  thing  that  surprised  me  was  that  right  through  the 
incident,  even  when  I  was  being  beaten,  my  mind  was  quite  clear 
and  I  was  consciously  analyzing  my  feelings.  This  rehearsal  stood  me 
in  good  stead  the  next  morning,  when  a  suffer  trial  was  in  store  for 
us.  For  the  next  morning  was  the  time  when  the  Simon  Commission 
was  due  to  arrive,  and  our  great  demonstration  was  going  to  take  place. 

My  father  was  at  Allahabad  at  the  time,  and  I  was  afraid  that 

135 


the  news  of  the  assault  on  me,  when  he  read  about  it  in  the  next 
morning's  papers,  would  upset  him  and  the  rest  of  the  family.  So  I 
telephoned  to  him  late  in  the  evening  to  assure  him  that  all  was  well 
and  that  he  should  not  worry.  But  he  did  worry,  and,  finding  it 
difficult  to  sleep  over  it,  he  decided  at  about  midnight  to  come  over 
to  Lucknow.  The  last  train  had  gone,  and  so  he  started  by  motorcar. 
He  had  some  bad  luck  on  the  way,  and  it  was  nearly  five  in  the 
morning  by  the  time  he  had  covered  the  journey  of  146  miles  and 
reached  Lucknow,  tired  out  and  exhausted. 

That  was  about  the  time  when  we  were  getting  ready  to  go  in 
procession  to  the  station.  The  previous  evening's  incidents  had  the 
effect  of  rousing  up  Lucknow  more  than  anything  that  we  could 
have  done,  and,  even  before  the  sun  was  out,  vast  numbers  of  people 
made  their  way  to  the  station.  Innumerable  little  processions  came 
from  various  parts  of  the  city,  and  from  the  Congress  office  started 
the  main  procession,  consisting  of  several  thousands,  marching  in 
fours.  We  were  in  this  main  procession.  We  were  stopped  by  the 
police  as  we  approached  the  station.  There  was  a  huge  open  space, 
about  half  a  mile  square,  in  front  of  the  station  (this  has  now  been 
built  over  by  the  new  station)  and  we  were  made  to  line  up  on  one  side 
of  this  maidan,  and  there  our  procession  remained,  making  no  attempt 
to  push  our  way  forward.  The  place  was  full  of  foot  and  mounted 
police,  as  well  as  the  military.  The  crowd  of  sympathetic  onlookers 
swelled  up,  and  many  of  these  persons  managed  to  spread  out  in 
twos  and  threes  in  the  open  space.  Suddenly  we  saw  in  the  far  distance 
a  moving  mass.  It  was  two  or  three  long  lines  of  cavalry  or 
mounted  police,  covering  the  entire  area,  galloping  down  toward  us, 
and  striking  and  riding  down  the  numerous  stragglers  that  dotted  the 
maidan.  That  charge  of  galloping  horsemen  was  a  fine  sight,  but 
for  the  tragedies  that  were  being  enacted  on  the  way,  as  harmless  and 
very  much  surprised  sight-seers  went  under  the  horses'  hoofs.  Behind 
the  charging  lines  these  people  lay  on  the  ground,  some  still  unable 
to  move,  others  writhing  in  pain,  and  the  whole  appearance  of  that 
maidan  was  that  of  a  battlefield.  But  we  did  not  have  much  time  for 
gazing  on  that  scene  or  for  reflections;  the  horsemen  were  soon  upon 
us,  and  their  front  line  clashed  almost  at  a  gallop  with  the  massed 
ranks  of  our  processionists.  We  held  our  ground,  and,  as  we  appeared 
to  be  unyielding,  the  horses  had  to  pull  up  at  the  last  moment  and 
reared  up  on  their  hind  legs  with  their  front  hoofs  quivering  in  the 
air  over  our  heads.  And  then  began  a  beating  of  us,  and  battering 


with  lathees  and  long  batons  both  by  the  mounted  and  the  foot  police. 
It  was  a  tremendous  hammering,  and  the  clearness  o£  vision  that  I 
had  had  the  evening  before  left  me.  All  I  knew  was  that  I  had  to  stay 
where  I  was  and  must  not  yield  or  go  back.  I  felt  half  blinded  with  the 
blows,  and  sometimes  a  dull  anger  seized  me  and  a  desire  to  hit  out. 
I  thought  how  easy  it  would  be  to  pull  down  the  police  officer  in 
front  of  me  from  his  horse  and  to  mount  up  myself,  but  long  training 
and  discipline  held,  and  I  did  not  raise  a  hand,  except  to  protect  my 
face  from  a  blow.  Besides,  I  knew  well  enough  that  any  aggression  on 
our  part  would  result  in  a  ghastly  tragedy,  the  shooting  down  of  large 
numbers  of  our  men. 

After  what  seemed  a  tremendous  length  of  time,  but  was  probably 
only  a  few  minutes,  our  line  began  to  yield  slowly,  step  by  step,  with 
out  breaking  up.  This  left  me  somewhat  isolated,  and  more  exposed 
at  the  sides.  More  blows  came,  and  then  I  was  suddenly  lifted  ofif  my 
feet  from  behind  and  carried  off,  to  my  great  annoyance.  Some  of 
my  younger  colleagues,  thinking  that  a  dead  set  was  being  made  at  me, 
had  decided  to  protect  me  in  this  summary  fashion. 

Our  processionists  lined  up  again  about  a  hundred  feet  behind  our 
original  line.  The  police  also  withdrew  and  stood  in  a  line,  fifty  feet 
apart  from  us.  So  we  remained,  when  the  cause  of  all  this  trouble, 
the  Simon  Commission,  secretly  crept  away  from  the  station  in  the 
far  distance,  more  than  half  a  mile  away.  But,  even  so,  they  did  not 
escape  the  back  flags  or  demonstrators.  Soon  after,  we  came  back  in 
full  procession  to  the  Congress  office  and  there  dispersed,  and  I  went  on 
to  father,  who  was  anxiously  waiting  for  us. 

Now  that  the  excitement  of  the  moment  had  passed,  I  felt  pains 
all  over  my  body  and  great  fatigue.  Almost  every  part  of  me  seemed 
to  ache,  and  I  was  covered  with  contused  wounds  and  marks  of  blows. 
But  fortunately  I  was  not  injured  in  any  vital  spot.  Many  of  our 
companions  were  less  fortunate,  and  were  badly  injured.  Govind 
Ballabh  Pant,  who  stood  by  me,  offered  a  much  bigger  target,  being 
six  foot  odd  in  height,  and  the  injuries  he  received  then  have  resulted 
in  a  painful  and  persistent  malady  which  prevented  him  for  a  long 
time  from  straightening  his  back  or  leading  an  active  life.  I  emerged 
with  a  somewhat  greater  conceit  of  my  physical  condition  and  powers 
of  endurance.  But  the  memory  that  endures  with  me,  far  more  than 
that  of  the  beating  itself,  is  that  of  many  of  the  faces  of  those  police 
men,  and  especially  of  the  officers,  who  were  attacking  us.  Most  of 
the  real  beating  and  battering  was  done  by  European  sergeants;  the 

137 


with  lathees  and  long  batons  both  by  the  mounted  and  the  foot  police. 
It  was  a  tremendous  hammering,  and  the  clearness  of  vision  that  I 
had  had  the  evening  before  left  me.  All  I  knew  was  that  I  had  to  stay 
where  I  was  and  must  not  yield  or  go  back.  I  felt  half  blinded  with  the 
blows,  and  sometimes  a  dull  anger  seized  me  and  a  desire  to  hit  out. 
I  thought  how  easy  it  would  be  to  pull  down  the  police  officer  in 
front  of  me  from  his  horse  and  to  mount  up  myself,  but  long  training 
and  discipline  held,  and  I  did  not  raise  a  hand,  except  to  protect  my 
face  from  a  blow.  Besides,  I  knew  well  enough  that  any  aggression  on 
our  part  would  result  in  a  ghastly  tragedy,  the  shooting  down  of  large 
numbers  of  our  men. 

After  what  seemed  a  tremendous  length  of  time,  but  was  probably 
only  a  few  minutes,  our  line  began  to  yield  slowly,  step  by  step,  with 
out  breaking  up.  This  left  me  somewhat  isolated,  and  more  exposed 
at  the  sides.  More  blows  came,  and  then  I  was  suddenly  lifted  off  my 
feet  from  behind  and  carried  of?,  to  my  great  annoyance.  Some  of 
my  younger  colleagues,  thinking  that  a  dead  set  was  being  made  at  me, 
had  decided  to  protect  me  in  this  summary  fashion. 

Our  processionists  lined  up  again  about  a  hundred  feet  behind  our 
original  line.  The  police  also  withdrew  and  stood  in  a  line,  fifty  feet 
apart  from  us.  So  we  remained,  when  the  cause  of  all  this  trouble, 
the  Simon  Commission,  secretly  crept  away  from  the  station  in  the 
far  distance,  more  than  half  a  mile  away.  But,  even  so,  they  did  not 
escape  the  back  flags  or  demonstrators.  Soon  after,  we  carne  back  in 
full  procession  to  the  Congress  office  and  there  dispersed,  and  I  went  on 
to  father,  who  was  anxiously  waiting  for  us. 

Now  that  the  excitement  of  the  moment  had  passed,  I  felt  pains 
all  over  my  body  and  great  fatigue.  Almost  every  part  of  me  seemed 
to  ache,  and  I  was  covered  with  contused  wounds  and  marks  of  blows. 
But  fortunately  I  was  not  injured  in  any  vital  spot.  Many  of  our 
companions  were  less  fortunate,  and  were  badly  injured.  Govind 
Ballabh  Pant,  who  stood  by  me,  offered  a  much  bigger  target,  being 
six  foot  odd  in  height,  and  the  injuries  he  received  then  have  resulted 
in  a  painful  and  persistent  malady  which  prevented  him  for  a  long 
time  from  straightening  his  back  or  leading  an  active  life.  I  emerged 
with  a  somewhat  greater  conceit  of  my  physical  condition  and  powers 
of  endurance.  But  the  memory  that  endures  with  me,  far  more  than 
that  of  the  beating  itself,  is  that  of  many  of  the  faces  of  those  police 
men,  and  especially  of  the  officers,  who  were  attacking  us.  Most  of 
the  real  beating  and  battering  was  done  by  European  sergeants;  the 

137 


Indian  rank  and  file  were  milder  in  their  methods.  And  those  faces, 
full  of  hate  and  blood-lust,  almost  mad,  with  no  trace  of  sympathy 
or  touch  of  humanity!  Probably  the  faces  on  our  side  just  then  were 
equally  hateful  to  look  at,  and  the  fact  that  we  were  mostly  passive  did 
not  fill  our  minds  and  hearts  with  love  for  our  opponents,  or  add 
to  the  beauty  of  our  countenances.  And  yet,  we  had  no  grievance 
against  each  other;  no  quarrel  that  was  personal,  no  ill  will.  We 
happened  to  represent,  for  the  time  being,  strange  and  powerful  forces 
which  held  us  in  thrall  and  cast  us  hither  and  thither,  and,  subtly 
gripping  our  minds  and  hearts,  roused  our  desires  and  passions  and 
made  us  their  blind  tools.  Blindly  we  struggled,  not  knowing  what 
we  struggled  for  and  whither  we  went.  The  excitement  of  action  held 
us;  but,  as  it  passed,  immediately  the  question  arose:  To  what  end 
was  all  this?  To  what  end? 


XXIII 

THUNDER  IN  THE  AIR 

As  WORKING  GENERAL  secretary  of  the  Congress,  I  was  busy  in  looking 
after  and  strengthening  its  organization,  and  I  was  particularly  inter 
ested  in  directing  people's  attention  to  social  and  economic  changes. 
I  traveled  a  great  deal  and  addressed  many  important  gatherings.  I 
presided,  I  think,  over  four  provincial  conferences  in  1928  as  well  as 
over  youth  leagues  and  students'  conferences.  From  time  to  time  I 
visited  rural  areas,  and  occasionally  I  addressed  industrial  workers. 
The  burden  of  my  speeches  was  always  much  the  same,  though  the 
form  varied  according  to  local  circumstances  and  the  stress  depended  on 
the  kind  of  audience  I  happened  to  be  addressing.  Everywhere  I  spoke 
on  political  independence  and  social  freedom  and  made  the  former 
a  step  toward  the  attainment  of  the  latter.  I  wanted  to  spread  the 
ideology  of  socialism  especially  among  Congress  workers  and  the 
intelligentsia;  for  these  people,  who  were  the  backbone  of  the  national 
movement,  thought  largely  in  terms  of  the  narrowest  nationalism. 
Their  speeches  laid  stress  on  the  glories  of  old  times;  the  injuries, 
material  and  spiritual,  caused  by  alien  rule;  the  sufferings  of  our  people; 
the  indignity  of  foreign  domination  over  us  and  our  national  honor 
demanding  that  we  should  be  free;  the  necessity  for  sacrifice  at  the 
altar  of  the  motherland.  They  were  familiar  themes  which  found 
an  echo  in  every  Indian  heart,  and  the  nationalist  in  me  responded  to 


them  and  was  moved  by  them  (though  I  was  never  a  blind  admirer 
of  ancient  times  in  India  or  elsewhere) .  But,  though  the  truth  in  them 
remained,  they  seemed  to  grow  a  little  thin  and  threadbare  with 
constant  use,  and  their  ceaseless  repetition  prevented  the  consideration 
of  other  problems  and  vital  aspects  of  our  struggle.  They  only  fostered 
.emotion  and  did  not  encourage  thought.  _ 

I  was  by  no  means  a  pioneer  in  the  socialist  field  in  India.  Indeed, 
I  was  rather  backward,  and  I  had  only  advanced  painfully,  step  by 
step,  where  many  others  had  gone  ahead  blazing  a  trail.  The  workers' 
trade-union  movement  was,  ideologically,  definitely  socialist,  and  so 
were  the  majority  of  the  youth  leagues.  A  vague,  confused  socialism 
was  already  part  of  the  atmosphere  of  India  when  I  returned  from 
Europe  in  December  1927,  and  even  earlier  than  that  there  were  many 
individual  socialists.  Mostly  they  thought  along  Utopian  lines,  but 
Marxian  theory  was  influencing  them  increasingly,  and  a  few  con 
sidered  themselves  as  hundred  per  cent  Marxists.  This  tendency  was 
strengthened  in  India,  as  in  Europe  and  America,  by  developments 
in  the  Soviet  Union,  and  particularly  the  Five-Year  Plan. 

Such  importance  as  I  possessed  as  a  socialist  worker  lay  in  the  fact 
that  I  happened  to  be  a  prominent  Congressman  holding  important 
Congress  offices.  There  were  many  other  well-known  Congressmen 
who  were  beginning  to  think  likewise.  This  was  most  marked  in  the 
United  Provinces  Provincial  Congress  Committee,  and  in  this  Com 
mittee  we  even  tried,  as  early  as  1926,  to  draw  up  a  mild  socialist 
program.  We  declared  that  the  existing  land  system  must  go  and 
that  there  should  be  no  intermediaries  between  the  State  and  the 
cultivator.  We  had  to  proceed  cautiously,  as  we  were  moving  in  an 
atmosphere  which  was,  till  then,  unused  to  such  ideas. 

In  the  second  half  of  1928  and  in  1929  there  was  frequent  talk  of  my 
arrest.  I  do  not  know  what  reality  lay  behind  the  press  references  and 
the  numerous  private  warnings  I  received  from  friends  who  seemed  to 
be  in  the  know,  but  the  warnings  produced  a  feeling  of  uncertainty 
in  me,  and  I  felt  I  was  always  on  the  verge  of  it.  I  did  not  mind  this 
particularly  as  I  knew  that,  whatever  the  future  held  for  me,  it  could 
not  be  a  settled  life  of  routine.  The  sooner  I  got  used  to  uncertainty 
and  sudden  changes  and  visits  to  prison  the  better.  I  think  that  on 
the  whole  I  succeeded  in  getting  used  to  the  idea  (and  to  a  much  lesser 
extent  my  people  also  succeeded) ;  whenever  arrest  came  I  took  it  more 
casually  than  I  might  otherwise  have  done.  So  rumors  of  arrest  were 
not  without  compensation;  they  gave  a  certain  excitement  and  a  bite 

139 


to  my  daily  existence.  Every  day  of  freedom  was  something  precious, 
a  day  gained.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  a  long  innings  in  1928  and 
1929,  and  arrest  came  at  last  as  late  as  April  1930.  Since  then  my  brief 
periods  outside  prison  have  had  a  measure  of  unreality  about  them, 
and  I  have  lived  in  my  house  as  a  stranger  on  a  short  visit,  or  moved 
about  uncertainly,  not  knowing  what  the  morrow  would  hold  for 
me,  and  with  the  constant  expectation  of  a  call  back  to  jail. 

As  1928  approached  its  appointed  end,  the  Calcutta  Congress  drew 
near.  My  father  was  to  preside  over  it.  He  was  full  of  the  All-Parties 
Conference  and  of  his  report  to  it  and  wanted  to  push  this  through 
the  Congress.  To  this  he  knew  that  I  was  not  agreeable,  because  I 
was  not  prepared  to  compromise  on  the  independence  issue,  and  this 
irritated  him.  We  did  not  argue  about  the  matter  much,  but  there  was 
a  definite  feeling  of  mental  conflict  between  us,  an  attempt  to  pull 
different  ways.  Differences  of  opinion  we  had  often  had  before,  vital 
differences  which  had  kept  us  in  different  political  camps.  But  I  do 
not  think  that  at  any  previous  or  subsequent  occasion  the  tension 
had  been  so  great.  Both  of  us  were  rather  unhappy  about  it.  In  Cal 
cutta  matters  came  to  this,  that  my  father  made  it  known  that  if  he 
could  not  have  his  way  in  the  Congress — that  is,  if  he  could  not  have 
a  majority  for  the  resolution  in  favor  of  the  All-Parties  Report — he 
would  refuse  to  preside  over  the  Congress.  That  was  a  perfectly 
reasonable  and  constitutional  course  to  adopt.  Nonetheless  it  was  dis 
concerting  to  many  of  his  opponents  who  did  not  wish  to  force  the 
issue  to  this  extent. 

There  were  negotiations  between  the  two  groups,  and  a  compromise 
formula  was  announced.  Then  this  fell  through.  It  was  all  rather 
confusing  and  not  very  edifying.  The  main  resolution  of  the  Congress, 
as  it  was  finally  adopted,  accepted  the  All-Parties  Report  but  intimated 
that  if  the  British  Government  did  not  agree  to  that  constitution  within 
a  year  the  Congress  would  revert  to  independence.  It  was  an  offer  of 
a  year's  grace  and  a  polite  ultimatum.  The  resolution  was  no  doubt 
a  come-down  from  the  •  ideal  of  independence,  for  the  All-Parties 
Report  did  not  even  ask  for  full  Dominion  status.  And  yet  it  was  prob 
ably  a  wise  resolution  in  the  sense  that  it  prevented  a  split  when  no  one 
was  ready  for  it,  and  kept  the  Congress  together  for  the  struggle  that 
began  in  1930.  It  was  clear  enough  that  the  British  Government  were 
not  going  to  accept  the  All-Parties  Constitution  within  a  year.  The 
struggle  was  inevitable;  and,  as  matters  stood  in  the  country,  no  such 
struggle  could  be  at  all  effective  without  Gandhiji's  lead. 

140 


I  had  opposed  the  resolution  in  the  open  Congress,  though  I  did  so 
half-heartedly.  And  yet  I  was  again  elected  general  secretary.  In  the 
Congress  sphere  I  seemed  to  act  the  part  of  the  famous  Vicar  of  Bray. 
Whatever  president  sat  on  the  Congress  throne,  still  I  was  secretary  in 
charge  of  the  organization. 

A  few  days  before  the  Calcutta  Congress,  the  All-India  Trade-Union 
Congress  was  held  at  Jharia,  the  center  of  the  coal  mine  area.  I  attended 
and  participated  in  it  for  the  first  two  days  and  then  had  to  go  away  to 
Calcutta.  It  was  my  first  trade-union  congress,  and  I  was  practically  an 
outsider,  though  my  activities  among  the  peasantry,  and  lately  among 
the  workers,  had  gained  for  me  a  measure  of  popularity  with  the  masses. 
I  found  the  old  tussle  going  on  between  the  reformists  and  the  more 
advanced  and  revolutionary  elements. 

My  own  sympathies  at  Jharia  were  with  the  advanced  group  but, 
being  a  newcomer,  I  felt  a  little  at  sea  in  these  domestic  conflicts  of  the 
Trade-Union  Congress,  and  I  decided  to  keep  aloof  from  them.  After 
I  had  left  Jharia,  the  annual  Trade-Union  Congress  elections  took 
place,  and  I  learned  at  Calcutta  that  I  had  been  elected  president  for 
the  next  year.  I  had  been  put  forward  by  the  moderate  group,  prob 
ably  because  they  felt  that  I  stood  the  best  chance  of  defeating  the  other 
candidate,  who  was  an  actual  worker  (on  the  railways)  and  who  had 
been  put  forward  by  the  radical  group.  If  I  had  been  present  at  Jharia 
on  the  day  of  the  election,  I  am  sure  that  I  would  have  withdrawn  in 
favor  of  the  worker  candidate.  It  seemed  to  me  positively  indecent  that 
a  newcomer  and  nonworker  should  be  suddenly  thrust  into  the  presi 
dency.  This  was  in  itself  a  measure  of  the  infancy  and  weakness  of  the 
trade-union  movement  in  India. 

In  March  1929  the  Government  struck  suddenly  at  organized  labor 
by  arresting  some  of  its  most  prominent  workers  from  the  advanced 
groups.  The  leaders  of  the  Bombay  Girni  Kamgar  Union  were  taken, 
as  well  as  labor  leaders  from  Bengal,  the  United  Provinces,  and  the 
Punjab.  Some  of  these  were  communists,  others  were  near-communists, 
yet  others  were  just  trade-unionists.  This  was  the  beginning  of  the 
famous  Meerut  trial  which  lasted  for  four  years  and  a  half. 

The  Meerut  Case  Defense  Committee  (of  which  I  was  a  member) 
did  not  have  an  easy  time  with  the  accused.  There  were  different  kinds 
of  people  among  these,  with  different  types  of  defenses,  and  often  there 
was  an  utter  absence  of  harmony  among  them.  After  some  months  we 
wound  up  the  formal  committee,  but  we  continued  to  help  in  our  in 
dividual  capacities.  The  development  of  the  political  situation  was  ab- 

141 


sorbing  more  and  more  of  our  attention,  and  in  1930  all  of  us  were 
ourselves  in  jail. 

Gandhiji  was  still  keeping  away  from  politics,  except  for  the  part 
he  played  at  the  Calcutta  Congress.  He  was,  however,  in  full  touch 
with  developments  and  was  often  consulted  by  the  Congress  leaders. 
His  main  activity  for  some  years  had  been  \hadi  propaganda,  and  with 
this  object  he  had  undertaken  extensive  tours  all  over  India.  He  took 
each  province  by  turn  and  visited  every  district  and  almost  every  town 
of  any  consequence,  as  well  as  remote  rural  areas.  Everywhere  he  at 
tracted  enormous  crowds,  and  it  required  a  great  deal  of  previous  staff 
work  to  carry  through  his  program.  In  this  manner  he  has  repeatedly 
toured  India  and  got  to  know  every  bit  of  the  vast  country  from  the 
north  to  the  far  south,  from  the  eastern  mountains  to  the  western  sea. 
I  do  not  think  any  other  human  being  has  ever  traveled  about  India  as 
much  as  he  has  done. 

In  the  past  there  were  great  wanderers  who  were  continually  on  the 
move,  pilgrim  souls  with  the  wanderlust;  but  their  means  of  locomotion 
were  slow,  and  a  lifetime  of  such  wandering  could  hardly  compete  with 
a  year  by  railway  and  motorcar.  Gandhiji  went  by  railway  and  auto 
mobile,  but  he  did  not  confine  himself  to  them;  he  tramped  also.  In 
this  way  he  gathered  his  unique  knowledge  of  India  and  her  people, 
and  in  this  way  also  scores  of  millions  saw  him  and  came  into  personal 
touch  with  him. 

He  came  to  the  United  Provinces  in  1929  on  his  \hadi  tour,  and  spent 
many  weeks  in  these  provinces  during  the  hottest  part  of  the  year.  I 
accompanied  him  occasionally  for  a  few  days  at  a  time  and,  despite  pre 
vious  experience,  could  not  help  marveling  at  the  vast  crowds  he  at 
tracted.  This  was  especially  noticeable  in  our  eastern  districts,  like  Gor- 
akhpur,  where  the  swarms  of  human  beings  reminded  one  of  hordes 
of  locusts.  As  we  motored  through  the  rural  areas,  we  would  have 
gatherings  of  from  ten  thousand  to  twenty-five  thousand  every  few 
miles,  and  the  principal  meeting  of  the  day  might  even  exceed  a  hun 
dred  thousand.  There  were  no  broadcasting  facilities,  except  rarely  in 
a  few  big  cities,  and  it  was  manifestly  impossible  to  be  heard  by  these 
crowds.  Probably  they  did  not  expect  to  hear  anything;  they  were  sat 
isfied  if  they  saw  the  Mahatma.  Gandhiji  usually  addressed  them  briefly, 
avoiding  undue  strain;  it  would  have  been  quite  impossible  to  carry 
on  otherwise  in  this  fashion  from  hour  to  hour  and  day  to  day. 

I  did  not  accompany  him  throughout  his  United  Provinces  tour  as 
I  could  be  of  no  special  use  to  him  and  there  was  no  point  in  my  add- 

142 


ing  to  the  number  of  the  touring  party.  I  had  no  objection  to  crowds, 
but  there  was  not  sufficient  inducement  to  get  pushed  and  knocked 
about  and  my  feet  crushed — the  usual  fate  of  people  accompanying 
Gandhij  i.  I  had  plenty  of  other  work  to  do  and  had  no  desire  to  con 
fine  myself  to  \hadi  propaganda,  which  seemed  to  me  a  relatively  minor 
activity  in  view  of  the  developing  political  situation.  To  some  extent  I 
resented  Gandhiji's  preoccupation  with  nonpolitical  issues,  and  I  could 
never  understand  the  background  of  his  thought.  In  those  days  he  was 
collecting  funds  for  Jtfiadi  work,  and  he  would  say  frequently  that  he 
wanted  money  for  Daridranarayan,  the  "Lord  of  the  Poor,"  or  "God 
that  resides  in  the  poor";  meaning  thereby,  presumably,  that  he  wanted 
it  to  help  the  poor  to  find  employment  and  work  in  cottage  industries. 
But  behind  that  word  there  seemed  to  be  a  glorification  of  poverty; 
God  was  especially  the  Lord  of  the  poor;  they  were  His  chosen  people. 
That,  I  suppose,  is  the  usual  religious  attitude  everywhere.  I  could  not 
appreciate  it,  for  poverty  seemed  to  me  a  hateful  thing,  to  be  fought 
and  rooted  out  and  not  to  be  encouraged  in  any  way.  This  inevitably 
led  to  an  attack  on  a  system  which  tolerated  and  produced  poverty,  and 
those  who  shrunk  from  this  had  of  necessity  to  justify  poverty  in  some 
way.  They  could  only  think  in  terms  of  scarcity  and  could  not  picture 
a  world  abundantly  supplied  with  the  necessaries  of  life;  probably,  ac 
cording  to  them,  the  rich  and  the  poor  would  always  be  with  us. 

Whenever  I  had  occasion  to  discuss  this  with  Gandhij  i,  he  would  lay 
stress  on  the  rich  treating  their  riches  as  a  trust  for  the  people;  it  was 
a  viewpoint  of  considerable  antiquity,  and  one  comes  across  it  fre 
quently  in  India  as  well  as  medieval  Europe.  I  confess  that  I  have  al 
ways  been  wholly  unable  to  understand  how  any  person  can  reasonably 
expect  this  to  happen,  or  imagine  that  therein  lies  the  solution  of  the 
social  problem. 

The  Legislative  Assembly  and  the  provincial  councils  had  long  ceased 
to  interest  anyone,  except  the  handful  who  moved  in  their  sacred  or 
bits.  They  carried  on  in  their  humdrum  way,  providing  some  kind  of 
a  cloak — a  torn  and  tattered  affair — to  the  authoritarian  and  despotic 
nature  of  the  Government,  an  excuse  to  some  people  to  talk  of  India's 
parliament,  and  allowances  to  their  members. 

A  rude  awakening  came  to  the  Assembly  one  day  when  Bhagat 
Singh  and  B.  K.  Dutt  threw  two  bombs  from  the  visitors'  gallery  on  to 
the  floor  of  the  house.  No  one  was  seriously  hurt,  and  probably  the 
bombs  were  intended,  as  was  stated  by  the  accused  later,  to  make  a 
noise  and  create  a  stir,  and  not  to  injure. 


They  did  create  a  stir  both  in  the  Assembly  and  outside.  Other  ac 
tivities  of  terrorists  were  not  so  innocuous.  A  young  English  police 
officer,  who  was  alleged  to  have  hit  Lala  Lajpat  Rai,  was  shot  down  and 
killed  in  Lahore.  In  Bengal  and  elsewhere  there  seemed  to  be  a  re 
crudescence  of  terrorist  activity.  A  number  of  conspiracy  cases  were 
launched,  and  the  number  of  detenus— people  kept  in  prison  or  other 
wise  detained  without  trial  or  conviction — rapidly  increased. 

In  the  Lahore  conspiracy  case  some  extraordinary  scenes  were  en 
acted  in  the  court  by  the  police,  and  a  great  deal  of  public  attention 
was  drawn  to  the  case  because  of  this.  As  a  protest  against  the  treat 
ment  given  to  them  in  court  and  in  prison,  there  was  a  hunger  strike 
on  the  part  of  most  of  the  prisoners.  I  forget  the  exact  reason  why  it 
began,  but  ultimately  the  question  involved  became  the  larger  one  of 
treatment  of  prisoners,  especially  politicals.  This  hunger  strike  went  on 
from  week  to  week  and  created  a  stir  in  the  country.  Owing  to  the 
physical  weakness  of  the  accused,  they  could  not  be  taken  to  court,  and 
the  proceedings  had  to  be  adjourned  repeatedly.  The  Government  of 
India  thereupon  initiated  legislation  to  allow  court  proceedings  to  con 
tinue  even  in  the  absence  of  the  accused  or  their  counsel.  The  question 
of  prison  treatment  had  also  to  be  considered  by  them. 

I  happened  to  be  in  Lahore  when  the  hunger  strike  was  already  a 
month  old.  I  was  given  permission  to  visit  some  of  the  prisoners  in  the 
prison,  and  I  availed  myself  of  this.  I  saw  Bhagat  Singh  for  the  first 
time,  and  Jatindranath  Das  and  a  few  others.  They  were  all  very  weak 
and  bedridden,  and  it  was  hardly  possible  to  talk  to  them  much.  Bhagat 
Singh  had  an  attractive,  intellectual  face,  remarkably  calm  and  peace 
ful.  There  seemed  to  be  no  anger  in  it.  He  looked  and  talked  with 
great  gentleness,  but  then  I  suppose  that  anyone  who  has  been  fasting 
for  a  month  will  look  spiritual  and  gentle.  Jatin  Das  looked  milder 
still,  soft  and  gentle  like  a  young  girl.  He  was  in  considerable  pain 
when  I  saw  him.  He  died  later,  as  a  result  of  fasting,  on  the  sixty-first 
day  of  the  hunger  strike. 

Jatin  Das's  death  created  a  sensation  all  over  the  country.  It  brought 
the  question  of  the  treatment  of  political  prisoners  to  the  front,  and 
Government  appointed  a  committee  on  the  subject.  As  a  result  of  the 
deliberations  of  this  committee,  new  rules  were  issued  creating  three 
classes  of  prisoners.  No  special  class  of  political  prisoners  was  created. 
These  new  rules,  which  seemed  to  promise  a  change  for  the  better,  as 
a  matter  of  fact  made  little  difference,  and  the  position  remained,  and 
still  remains,  highly  unsatisfactory. 

144 


The  1929  Congress  was  going  to  be  held  in  Lahore.  After  ten  years 
it  had  come  back  to  the  Punjab.  Much  had  happened  during  this 
decade,  and  India's  face  had  changed,  but  there  was  no  lack  of  parallels. 
Political  tension  was  growing;  the  atmosphere  of  struggle  was  devel 
oping  fast.  The  long  shadow  of  the  conflict  to  come  lay  over  the  land. 

As  the  summer  and  monsoon  months  gradually  shaded  off  into  the 
autumn,  the  provincial  Congress  committees  busied  themselves  with 
the  election  of  the  president  for  the  Lahore  session  of  the  Congress. 
There  was  almost  unanimity  in  favor  of  Gandhi ji. 

So  he  was  recommended  for  the  presidency  by  the  provincial  com 
mittees.  But  he  would  have  none  of  it.  His  refusal,  though  emphatic, 
seemed  to  leave  some  room  for  argument,  and  it  was  hoped  that  he 
would  reconsider  it.  A  meeting  of  the  All-India  Congress  Committee 
was  held  in  Lucknow  to  decide  finally,  and  almost  to  the  last  hour  all 
of  us  thought  that  he  would  agree.  But  he  would  not  do  so,  and  at  the 
last  moment  he  pressed  my  name  forward.  The  All-India  Congress 
Committee  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by  his  final  refusal,  and  a  little 
irritated  at  being  placed  in  a  difficult  and  invidious  position.  For  want 
of  any  other  person,  and  in  a  spirit  of  resignation,  they  finally  elected 
me. 

I  have  seldom  felt  quite  so  annoyed  and  humiliated  as  I  did  at  that 
election.  It  was  not  that  I  was  not  sensible  of  the  honor,  for  it  was  a 
great  honor,  and  I  would  have  rejoiced  if  I  had  been  elected  in  the  or 
dinary  way.  But  I  did  not  come  to  it  by  the  main  entrance  or  even  a 
side  entrance;  I  appeared  suddenly  by  a  trap  door  and  bewildered  the 
audience  into  acceptance.  They  put  a  brave  face  on  it  and,  like  a  neces 
sary  pill,  swallowed  me.  My  pride  was  hurt,  and  I  almost  felt  like  hand 
ing  back  the  honor.  Fortunately  I  restrained  myself  from  making  an 
exhibition  of  myself  and  stole  away  with  a  heavy  heart. 

Probably  the  person  who  was  happiest  about  this  decision  was  my 
father.  He  did  not  wholly  like  my  politics,  but  he  liked  me  well  enough, 
and  any  good  thing  that  came  my  way  pleased  him.  Often  he  would 
criticize  me  and  speak  a  little  curtly  to  me,  but  no  person  who  cared 
to  retain  his  good  will  could  run  me  down  in  his  presence. 

My  election  was  indeed  a  great  honor  and  a  great  responsibility  for 
me;  it  was  unique  in  that  a  son  was  immediately  following  his  father 
in  the  presidential  chair.  It  was  often  said  that  I  was  the  youngest  presi 
dent  of  the  Congress — I  was  just  forty  when  I  presided.  This  was  not 
true.  I  think  Gokhale  was  about  the  same  age,  and  Maulana  Abul 
Kalam  Azad  (though  he  is  a  little  older  than  me)  was  probably  just 

145 


under  forty  when  he  presided.  But  Gokhale  was  considered  one  of  the 
elder  statesmen  even  when  he  was  in  his  late  thirties,  and  Abul  Kalam 
Azad  has  especially  cultivated  a  look  of  venerable  age  to  give  a  suitable 
background  to  his  great  learning.  As  statesmanship  has  seldom  been 
considered  one  of  my  virtues,  and  no  one  has  accused  me  of  possessing 
an  excess  of  learning,  I  have  escaped  so  far  the  accusation  of  age,  though 
my  hair  has  turned  gray  and  my  looks  betray  me. 

The  Lahore  Congress  drew  near.  Meanwhile  events  were  marching, 
step  by  step,  inevitably,  pushed  onward,  so  it  seemed,  by  some  motive 
force  of  their  own.  Individuals,  for  all  the  brave  show  they  put  up, 
played  a  very  minor  role.  One  had  the  feeling  of  being  a  cog  in  a  great 
machine  which  swept  on  relentlessly. 

Hoping  perhaps  to  check  this  onward  march  of  destiny,  the  British 
Government  took  a  forward  step,  and  the  Viceroy,  Lord  Irwin,  made 
an  announcement  about  a  forthcoming  Round  Table  Conference.  It 
was  an  ingeniously  worded  announcement,  which  could  mean  much 
or  very  little,  and  it  seemed  to  many  of  us  obvious  that  the  latter  was 
the  more  likely  contingency.  And  in  any  event,  even  if  there  was  more 
in  the  announcement,  it  could  not  be  anywhere  near  what  we  wanted. 
Hardly  had  this  viceregal  announcement  been  made,  when,  almost 
with  indecent  haste,  so  it  seemed,  a  "Leaders'  Conference"  was  ar 
ranged  at  Delhi,  and  people  from  various  groups  were  invited  to  it. 
Gandhij i  was  there,  so  was  my  father;  Vallabhbhai  Patel  (still  presi 
dent  of  the  Assembly)  was  also  there,  and  Moderate  leaders  like  Dr.  Tej 
Bahadur  Sapru  and  others.  A  joint  resolution  or  manifesto  was  agreed 
to,  accepting  the  Viceroy's  declaration  subject  to  some  conditions,  which, 
it  was  stated,  were  vital  and  must  be  fulfilled.  If  these  conditions  were 
accepted  by  Government,  then  co-operation  was  to  be  offered.  These 
conditions *  were  solid  enough  and  would  have  made  a  difference. 

It  was  a  triumph  to  get  such  a  resolution  agreed  to  by  representatives 
of  all  the  groups,  moderate  and  advanced.  For  the  Congress  it  was  a 
comedown;  as  a  common  measure  of  agreement  it  was  high.  But  there 
was  a  fatal  catch  in  it.  The  conditions  were  looked  upon  from  at  least 
two  different  viewpoints.  The  Congress  people  considered  them  to  be 
essential,  the  sine  qua  non,  without  which  there  could  be  no  co-opera- 

^•Thc  conditions  were: 

(1)  All  discussions  at  the  proposed  conference  to  be  on  the  basis  of  full  Dominion 
status  for  India. 

(2)  There  should  be  a  predominant  representation  of  Congressmen  at  the  conference. 

(3)  A  general  amnesty  of  political  prisoners. 

(4)  The  Government  of  India  to  be  carried  on  from  now  onward,  as  far  as  is  pos 
sible  under  existing  conditions,  on  the  lines  of  a  Dominion  government. 

146 


tion.  For  them  they  represented  the  minimum  required.  For  the  Moder 
ate  groups  they  were  a  desirable  maximum  which  should  be  stated,  but 
which  could  not  be  insisted  on  to  the  point  of  refusal  of  co-operation. 

And  so  it  happened  that  later  on,  though  none  of  these  conditions 
were  satisfied  and  most  of  us  lay  in  jail,  together  with  scores  of  thou 
sands  of  others,  our  Moderate  friends,  who  had  signed  that  manifesto 
with  us,  gave  their  full  co-operation  to  our  jailers. 

Most  of  us  suspected  that  this  would  happen — though  hardly  to  the 
extent  it  did  happen — but  there  was  some  hope  that  this  joint  action, 
whereby  the  Congress  people  had  to  some  extent  curbed  themselves, 
would  also  result  in  curbing  the  propensities  of  the  Liberals  and  others 
to  indiscriminate  and  almost  invariable  co-operation  with  the  British 
Government.  A  more  powerful  motive  for  some  of  us,  who  heartily 
disliked  the  compromising  resolution,  was  to  keep  our  own  Congress 
ranks  well  knit  together.  On  the  eve  of  a  big  struggle  we  could  not 
afford  to  split  up  the  Congress.  It  was  well  known  that  Government 
was  not  likely  to  accept  the  conditions  laid  down  by  us,  and  our  posi 
tion  would  thus  be  stronger  and  we  could  easily  carry  our  Right  wing 
with  us.  It  was  only  a  question  of  a  few  weeks;  December  and  the 
Lahore  Congress  were  near. 

And  yet  that  joint  manifesto  was  a  bitter  pill  for  some  of  us.  To  give 
up  the  demand  for  independence,  even  in  theory  and  even  for  a  short 
while,  was  wrong  and  dangerous;  it  meant  that  it  was  just  a  tactical 
affair,  something  to  bargain  with,  not  something  which  was  essential 
and  without  which  we  could  never  be  content.  So  I  hesitated  and  re 
fused  to  sign  the  manifesto,  but,  as  was  not  unusual  with  me,  I  allowed 
myself  to  be  talked  into  signing.  Even  so,  I  came  away  in  great  dis 
tress,  and  the  very  next  day  I  thought  of  withdrawing  from  the  Con 
gress  presidency,  and  wrote  accordingly  to  Gandhiji.  I  do  not  suppose 
that  I  meant  this  seriously,  though  I  was  sufficiently  upset.  A  soothing 
letter  from  Gandhiji  and  three  days  of  reflection  calmed  me. 

Just  prior  to  the  Lahore  Congress,  a  final  attempt  was  made  to  find 
some  basis  of  agreement  between  Congress  and  the  Government.  An 
interview  with  Lord  Irwin,  the  Viceroy,  was  arranged.  I  do  not  know 
who  took  the  initiative  in  arranging  this  interview,  but  I  imagine  that 
Vallabhbhai  Patel  was  the  prime  mover.  Gandhiji  and  my  father  were 
present  at  the  interview,  representing  the  Congress  viewpoint.  The  in 
terview  came  to  nothing;  there  was  no  common  ground,  and  the  two 
main  parties — the  Government  and  Congress — were  far  apart  from  each 
other.  So  now  nothing  remained  but  for  the  Congress  to  go  ahead.  The 


year  of  grace  given  at  Calcutta  was  ending;  independence  was  to  be 
declared  once  for  all  the  objective  of  the  Congress,  and  the  necessary 
steps  taken  to  carry  on  the  struggle  to  attain  it. 

During  these  final  weeks  prior  to  the  Lahore  Congress  I  had  to  at 
tend  to  important  work  in  another  field.  The  All-India  Trade-Union 
Congress  was  meeting  at  Nagpur,  and,  as  president  for  the  year,  I  had 
to  preside  over  it.  It  was  very  unusual  for  the  same  person  to  preside 
over  both  the  National  Congress  and  the  Trade-Union  Congress 
within  a  few  weeks  of  each  other.  I  had  hoped  that  I  might  be  a  link 
between  the  two  and  bring  them  closer  to  each  other — the  National 
Congress  to  become  more  socialistic,  more  proletarian,  and  organized 
labor  to  join  the  national  struggle. 

It  was,  perhaps,  a  vain  hope,  for  nationalism  can  only  go  far  in  a 
socialistic  or  proletarian  direction  by  ceasing  to  be  nationalism.  Yet  I 
felt  that,  bourgeois  as  the  outlook  of  the  National  Congress  was,  it  did 
represent  the  only  effective  revolutionary  force  in  the  country.  As  such, 
labor  ought  to  help  it  and  co-operate  with  it  and  influence  it,  keeping, 
however,  its  own  identity  and  idealogy  distinct  and  intact.  And  I  hoped 
that  the  course  of  events  and  the  participation  in  direct  action  would 
inevitably  drive  the  Congress  to  a  more  radical  ideology  and  to  face 
social  and  economic  issues.  The  development  of  the  Congress  during 
recent  years  had  been  in  the  direction  of  the  peasant  and  the  village. 
If  this  development  continued,  it  might  in  course  of  time  become  a  vast 
peasant  organization,  or,  at  any  rate,  an  organization  in  which  the  peas 
ant  element  predominated. 

Many  Congressmen  took  prominent  part  in  labor  activities.  The  ad 
vanced  sections  of  labor,  however,  fought  shy  of  the  National  Congress. 
They  mistrusted  its  leaders,  and  considered  its  ideology  bourgeois  and 
reactionary,  which  indeed  it  was,  from  the  labor  point  of  view.  The 
Congress  was,  as  its  very  name  implied,  a  nationalist  organization. 

I  played  a  very  undistinguished  role  at  the  Nagpur  Trade-Union 
Congress.  Being  a  newcomer  in  the  labor  field  and  still  feeling  my  way, 
I  was  a  little  hesitant.  Generally,  I  expressed  my  views  in  favor  of  the 
more  advanced  groups,  but  I  avoided  acting  with  any  group  and  played 
the  part  more  of  an  impartial  speaker  than  a  directing  president.  I  was 
thus  an  almost  passive  spectator  of  the  breaking-up  of  the  Trade-Union 
Congress  and  the  formation  of  a  new  moderate  organization.  Person 
ally,  I  felt  that  the  Right  groups  were  not  justified  in  breaking  away, 
and  yet  some  of  the  leaders  of  the  Left  had  forced  the  pace  and  given 
them  every  pretext  to  depart.  Between  the  quarrels  of  the  Right  and 

148 


Left,  a  large  Center  group  felt  a  little  helpless.  Perhaps  given  a  right 
lead,  it  could  have  curbed  the  two  and  avoided  the  break-up  of  the 
Trade  Union  Congress,  and,  even  if  the  break  came,  it  would  not  have 
had  the  unfortunate  consequences  which  resulted. 
I  was  out  of  all  this  from  1930  onward,  as  I  was  mostly  in  prison. 


XXIV 

INDEPENDENCE  AND  AFTER 

THE  LAHORE  CONGRESS  remains  fresh  in  my  memory — a  vivid  patch. 
That  is  natural,  for  I  played  a  leading  role  there  and,  for  a  moment, 
occupied  the  center  of  the  stage;  and  I  like  to  think  sometimes  of  the 
emotions  that  filled  me  during  those  crowded  days.  I  can  never  forget 
the  magnificent  welcome  that  the  people  of  Lahore  gave  me,  tremen 
dous  in  its  volume  and  its  intensity.  I  knew  well  that  this  overflowing 
enthusiasm  was  for  a  symbol  and  an  idea,  not  for  me  personally;  yet 
it  was  no  little  thing  for  a  person  to  become  that  symbol,  even  for  a 
while,  in  the  eyes  and  hearts  of  great  numbers  of  people,  and  I  felt 
exhilarated  and  lifted  out  of  myself.  But  my  personal  reactions  were  of 
little  account,  and  there  were  big  issues  at  stake.  The  whole  atmosphere 
was  electric  and  surcharged  with  the  gravity  of  the  occasion.  Our  deci 
sions  were  not  going  to  be  mere  criticisms  or  protests  or  expressions  of 
opinion,  but  a  call  to  action  which  was  bound  to  convulse  the  country 
and  affect  the  lives  of  millions. 

What  the  distant  future  held  for  us  and  our  country,  none  dared 
prophesy;  the  immediate  future  was  clear  enough,  and  it  held  the 
promise  of  strife  and  suffering  for  us  and  those  who  were  dear  to  us. 
This  thought  sobered  our  enthusiasms  and  made  us  very  conscious  of 
our  responsibility.  Every  vote  that  we  gave  became  a  message  of  fare 
well  to  ease,  comfort,  domestic  happiness,  and  the  intercourse  of 
friends,  and  an  invitation  to  lonely  days  and  nights  and  physical  and 
mental  distress. 

The  main  resolution  on  independence,  and  the  action  to  be  taken  in 
furtherance  of  our  freedom  struggle,  was  passed  almost  unanimously, 
barely  a  score  of  persons,  out  of  many  thousands,  voting  against  it. 
The  All-India  Congress  Committee  had  been  authorized  to  plan  and 
carry  out  our  campaign,  but  all  knew  that  the  real  decision  lay  with 
Gandhiji. 

149 


The  Lahore  Congress  was  attended  by  large  numbers  of  people  from 
the  Frontier  Province  near  by.  Individual  delegates  from  this  province 
had  always  come  to  the  Congress  sessions,  and  for  some  years  past 
Khan  Abdul  Ghaffar  Khan  had  been  attending  and  taking  part  in  our 
deliberations.  In  Lahore  for  the  first  time  a  large  batch  of  earnest 
young  men  from  the  Frontier  came  into  touch  with  all-India  political 
currents.  Their  fresh  minds  were  impressed,  and  they  returned  with  a 
sense  of  unity  with  the  rest  of  India  in  the  struggle  for  freedom  and 
full  of  enthusiasm  for  it.  They  were  simple  but  effective  men  of  action, 
less  given  to  talk  and  quibbling  than  the  people  of  any  other  province 
in  India,  and  they  started  organizing  their  people  and  spreading  the 
new  ideas.  They  met  with  success,  and  the  men  and  women  of  the 
Frontier,  the  latest  to  join  in  India's  struggle,  played  an  outstanding 
and  remarkable  part  from  1930  onward. 

Immediately  after  the  Lahore  Congress,  and  in  obedience  to  its 
mandate,  my  father  called  upon  the  Congress  members  of  the  Legis 
lative  Assembly  and  the  provincial  councils  to  resign  from  their  seats. 
Nearly  all  of  them  came  out  in  a  body,  a  very  few  refusing  to  do  so, 
although  this  involved  a  breach  of  their  election  promises. 

Still  we  were  vague  about  the  future.  In  spite  of  the  enthusiasm 
shown  at  the  Congress  session,  no  one  knew  what  the  response  of  the 
country  would  be  to  a  program  of  action.  We  had  burned  our  boats 
and  could  not  go  back,  but  the  country  ahead  of  us  was  an  almost 
strange  and  uncharted  land.  To  give  a  start  to  our  campaign,  and  partly 
also  to  judge  the  temper  of  the  country,  January  26  was  fixed  as  Inde 
pendence  Day,  when  a  pledge  of  independence  was  to  be  taken  all  over 
the  country. 

And  so,  full  of  doubt  about  our  program,  but  pushed  on  by  enthusi 
asm  and  the  desire  to  do  something  effective,  we  waited  for  the  march 
of  events.  I  was  in  Allahabad  during  the  early  part  of  January;  my 
father  was  mostly  away.  It  was  the  time  of  the  great  annual  fair,  the 
Magh  Mela  i  probably  it  was  the  special  Kumbh  year,  and  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  men  and  women  were  continually  streaming  into  Allaha 
bad,  or  holy  Prayag,  as  it  was  to  the  pilgrims.  They  were  all  kinds  of 
people,  chiefly  peasants,  also  laborers,  shopkeepers,  artisans,  merchants, 
businessmen,  professional  people— indeed,  it  was  a  cross  section  of 
Hindu  India.  As  I  watched  these  great  crowds  and  the  unending 
streams  of  people  going  to  and  from  the  river,  I  wondered  how  they 
would  react  to  the  call  for  civil  resistance  and  peaceful  direct  action. 
How  many  of  them  knew  or  cared  for  the  Lahore  decisions?  How 

150 


amazingly  powerful  was  that  faith  which  had  for  thousands  of  years 
brought  them  and  their  forbears  from  every  corner  of  India  to  bathe 
in  the  holy  Ganga!  Could  they  not  divert  some  of  this  tremendous 
energy  to  political  and  economic  action  to  better  their  own  lot?  Or 
were  their  minds  too  full  of  the  trappings  and  traditions  of  their 
religion  to  leave  room  for  other  thoughts  ?  I  knew,  of  course,  that  these 
other  thoughts  were  already  there,  stirring  the  placid  stillness  of  ages. 
It  was  the  movement  of  these  vague  ideas  and  desires  among  the 
masses  that  had  caused  the  upheavals  of  the  past  dozen  years  and  had 
changed  the  face  of  India.  There  was  no  doubt  about  their  existence 
and  of  the  dynamic  energy  behind  them.  But  still  doubt  came  and 
questions  arose  to  which  there  was  no  immediate  answer.  How  far  had 
these  ideas  spread?  What  strength  lay  behind  them,  what  capacity  for 
organized  action,  for  long  endurance? 

Our  house  attracted  crowds  of  pilgrims.  It  lay  conveniently  situated 
near  one  of  the  places  of  pilgrimage,  Bharadwaj,  where  in  olden  times 
there  was  a  university,  and  on  the  days  of  the  mela  an  endless  stream 
of  visitors  would  come  to  us  from  dawn  to  dusk.  Curiosity,  I  suppose, 
brought  most  of  them,  and  the  desire  to  see  well-known  persons  they 
had  heard  of,  especially  my  father.  But  a  large  proportion  of  those  who 
came  were  politically  inclined  and  asked  questions  about  the  Congress 
and  what  it  had  decided  and  what  was  going  to  happen;  also  they 
were  full  of  their  own  economic  troubles  and  wanted  to  know  what 
they  should  do  about  them.  Our  political  slogans  they  knew  well,  and 
all  day  the  house  resounded  with  them.  I  started  the  day  by  saying  a 
few  words  to  each  group  of  twenty  or  fifty  or  a  hundred  as  it  came, 
one  after  the  other;  but  soon  this  proved  an  impossible  undertaking, 
and  I  silently  saluted  them  when  they  came.  There  was  a  limit  to  this, 
too,  and  then  I  tried  to  hide  myself.  It  was  all  in  vain.  The  slogans 
became  louder  and  louder,  the  verandas  of  the  house  were  full  of  these 
visitors  of  ours,  each  door  and  window  had  a  collection  of  prying  eyes. 
It  was  impossible  to  work  or  talk  or  feed  or,  indeed,  do  anything.  This 
was  not  only  embarrassing,  it  was  annoying  and  irritating.  Yet  there 
they  were,  these  people  looking  up  with  shining  eyes  full  of  affection, 
with  generations  of  poverty  and  suffering  behind  them,  and  still  pour 
ing  out  their  gratitude  and  love  and  asking  for  little  in  return,  except 
fellow  feeling  and  sympathy.  It  was  impossible  not  to  feel  humbled  and 
awed  by  this  abundance  of  affection  and  devotion. 

A  dear  friend  of  ours  was  staying  with  us  at  the  time,  and  often  it 
became  impossible  to  carry  on  any  conversation  with  her,  for  every  five 


minutes  or  less  I  had  to  go  out  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  a  crowd  that 
had  assembled,  and  in  between  we  listened  to  the  slogans  and  shouting 
outside.  She  was  amused  at  my  plight  and  a  little  impressed,  I  think, 
by  what  she  considered  my  great  popularity  with  the  masses.  (As  a 
matter  of  fact  the  principal  attraction  was  my  father,  but,  as  he  was 
away,  I  had  to  face  the  music.)  She  turned  to  me  suddenly  and  asked 
me  how  I  liked  this  hero  worship.  Did  I  not  feel  proud  of  it?  I  hesi 
tated  a  little  before  answering,  and  this  led  her  to  think  that  she  had, 
perhaps,  embarrassed  me  by  too  personal  a  question.  She  apologized. 
She  had  not  embarrassed  me  in  the  least,  but  I  found  the  question 
difficult  to  answer.  My  mind  wandered  away,  and  I  began  to  analyze 
my  own  feelings  and  reactions.  They  were  very  mixed. 

It  was  true  that  I  had  achieved,  almost  accidentally  as  it  were,  an 
unusual  degree  of  popularity  with  the  masses;  I  was  appreciated  by  the 
intelligentsia;  to  young  men  and  women  I  was  a  bit  of  a  hero,  and  a 
halo  of  romance  seemed  to  surround  me  in  their  eyes.  Songs  had  been 
written  about  me,  and  the  most  impossible  and  ridiculous  legends  had 
grown  up.  Even  my  opponents  had  often  put  in  a  good  word  for  me 
and  patronizingly  admitted  that  I  was  not  lacking  in  competence  or  in 
good  faith. 

Only  a  saint,  perhaps,  or  an  inhuman  monster  could  survive  all  this, 
unscathed  and  unaffected,  and  I  can  place  myself  in  neither  of  these 
categories.  It  went  to  my  head,  intoxicated  me  a  little,  and  gave  me 
confidence  and  strength.  I  became  (I  imagine  so,  for  it  is  a  difficult 
task  to  look  at  oneself  from  outside)  just  a  little  bit  autocratic  in  my 
ways,  just  a  shade  dictatorial.  And  yet  I  do  not  think  that  my  conceit 
increased  markedly.  I  had  a  fair  measure  of  my  abilities,  I  thought,  and 
I  was  by  no  means  humble  about  them.  But  I  knew  well  enough  that 
there  was  nothing  at  all  remarkable  about  them,  and  I  was  very  con 
scious  of  my  failings.  A  habit  of  introspection  probably  helped  me  to 
retain  my  balance  and  view  many  happenings  connected  with  myself 
in  a  detached  manner.  Experience  of  public  life  showed  me  that  popu 
larity  was  often  the  handmaiden  of  undesirable  persons;  it  was  cer 
tainly  not  an  invariable  sign  of  virtue  or  intelligence.  Was  I  popular, 
then,  because  of  my  failings  or  my  accomplishments  ?  Why,  indeed,  was 
I  popular? 

Not  because  of  intellectual  attainments,  for  they  were  not  extraor 
dinary,  and,  in  any  event,  they  do  not  make  for  popularity.  Not 
because  of  so-called  sacrifices,  for  it  is  patent  that  hundreds  and  thou 
sands  in  our  own  day  in  India  have  suffered  infinitely  more,  even  to 

152 


the  point  of  the  last  sacrifice.  My  reputation  as  a  hero  is  entirely  a  bogus 
one;  I  do  not  feel  at  all  heroic,  and  generally  the  heroic  attitude  or  the 
dramatic  pose  in  life  strikes  me  as  silly.  As  for  romance,  I  should  say 
that  I  am  the  least  romantic  of  individuals.  It  is  true  that  I  have  some 
physical  and  mental  courage,  but  the  background  of  that  is  probably 
pride — personal,  group,  and  national — and  a  reluctance  to  be  coerced 
into  anything. 

I  had  no  satisfactory  answer  to  my  question.  Then  I  proceeded  along 
a  different  line  of  inquiry.  I  found  that  one  of  the  most  persistent 
legends  about  my  father  and  myself  was  to  the  effect  that  we  used  to 
send  our  linen  weekly  from  India  to  a  Paris  laundry.  We  have 
repeatedly  contradicted  this,  but  the  legend  persists.  Anything  more 
fantastic  and  absurd  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  imagine,  and,  if  anyone  is 
foolish  enough  to  indulge  in  this  wasteful  snobbery,  I  should  have 
thought  he  would  get  a  special  mention  for  being  a  prize  fool. 

Another  equally  persistent  legend,  often  repeated  in  spite  of  denial, 
is  that  I  was  at  school  with  the  Prince  of  Wales.  The  story  goes  on  to 
say  that  when  the  Prince  came  to  India  in  1921  he  asked  for  me;  I  was 
then  in  jail  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  was  not  only  not  at  school  with  him, 
but  I  have  never  had  the  advantage  of  meeting  him  or  speaking  to  him. 

I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  my  reputation  or  popularity,  such  as 
they  are,  depend  on  these  or  similar  legends.  They  may  have  a  more 
secure  foundation,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  the  superstructure  has  a 
thick  covering  of  snobbery,  as  is  evidenced  by  these  stories.  At  any  rate, 
there  is  the  idea  of  mixing  in  high  society  and  living  a  life  of  luxury 
and  then  renouncing  it  all;  renunciation  has  always  appealed  to  the 
Indian  mind.  As  a  basis  for  a  reputation  this  does  not  at  all  appeal  to 
me.  I  prefer  the  active  virtues  to  the  passive  ones,  and  renunciation  and 
sacrifice  for  their  own  sakes  have  little  appeal  for  me.  I  do  value  them 
from  another  point  of  view — that  of  mental  and  spiritual  training- 
just  as  a  simple  and  regular  life  is  necessary  for  the  athlete  to  keep  in 
good  physical  condition.  And  the  capacity  for  endurance  and  persever 
ance  in  spite  of  hard  knocks  is  essential  for  those  who  wish  to  dabble 
in  great  undertakings.  But  I  have  no  liking  or  attraction  for  the  ascetic 
view  of  life,  the  negation  of  life,  the  terrified  abstention  from  its  joys 
and  sensations.  I  have  not  consciously  renounced  anything  that  I  really 
valued;  but  then,  values  change. 

The  question  that  my  friend  had  asked  me  still  remained  unan 
swered:  did  I  not  feel  proud  of  this  hero  worship  of  the  crowd?  I 
disliked  it  and  wanted  to  run  away  from  it,  yet  I  had  got  used  to  it; 

153 


when  it  was  wholly  absent,  I  rather  missed  it.  Neither  way  brought 
satisfaction,  but,  on  the  whole,  the  crowd  had  filled  some  inner  need 
of  mine.  The  notion  that  I  could  influence  them  and  move  them  to 
action  gave  me  a  sense  of  authority  over  their  minds  and  hearts;  this 
satisfied,  to  some  extent,  my  will  to  power.  On  their  part,  they  exer 
cised  a  subtle  tyranny  over  me,  for  their  confidence  and  affection  moved 
inner  depths  within  me  and  evoked  emotional  responses.  Individualist 
as  I  was,  sometimes  the  barriers  of  individuality  seemed  to  melt  away, 
and  I  felt  that  it  would  be  better  to  be  accursed  with  these  unhappy 
people  than  to  be  saved  alone.  But  the  barriers  were  too  solid  to  dis 
appear,  and  I  peeped  over  them  with  wondering  eyes  at  this  phenom 
enon  which  I  failed  to  understand. 

Conceit,  like  fat  on  the  human  body,  grows  imperceptibly,  layer 
upon  layer,  and  the  person  whom  it  affects  is  unconscious  of  the  daily 
accretion.  Fortunately  the  hard  knocks  of  a  mad  world  tone  it  down  or 
even  squash  it  completely,  and  there  has  been  no  lack  of  these  hard 
knocks  for  us  in  India  during  recent  years.  The  school  of  life  has  been 
a  difficult  one  for  us,  and  suffering  is  a  hard  taskmaster. 

I  have  been  fortunate  in  another  respect  also — the  possession  of  fam 
ily  members  and  friends  and  comrades,  who  have  helped  me  to  retain 
a  proper  perspective  and  not  to  lose  my  mental  equilibrium.  Public 
functions,  addresses  by  municipalities,  local  boards,  and  other  public 
bodies,  processions,  and  the  like,  used  to  be  a  great  strain  on  my  nerves 
and  my  sense  of  humor  and  reality.  The  most  extravagant  and  pomp 
ous  language  would  be  used,  and  everybody  would  look  so  solemn  and 
pious  that  I  felt  an  almost  uncontrollable  desire  to  laugh,  or  to  stick 
out  my  tongue,  or  stand  on  my  head,  just  for  the  pleasure  of  shocking 
and  watching  the  reactions  on  the  faces  at  that  august  assembly!  For 
tunately  for  my  reputation  and  for  the  sober  respectability  of  public  life 
in  India,  I  have  suppressed  this  mad  desire  and  usually  behaved  with 
due  propriety.  But  not  always.  Sometimes  there  has  been  an  exhibition 
on  my  part  in  a  crowded  meeting,  or  more  often  in  processions,  which 
I  find  extraordinarily  trying.  I  have  suddenly  left  a  procession,  arranged 
in  our  honor,  and  disappeared  in  the  crowd,  leaving  my  wife  or  some 
other  person  to  carry  on,  perched  up  in  a  car  or  carriage,  with  that 
procession. 

This  continuous  effort  to  suppress  one's  feelings  and  behave  in 
public  is  a  bit  of  a  strain,  and  the  usual  result  is  that  one  puts  on  a 
glum  and  solid  look  on  public  occasions.  Perhaps  because  of  this  I  was 
once  described  in  an  article  in  a  Hindu  magazine  as  resembling  a 

154 


Hindu  widow!  I  must  say  that,  much  as  I  admire  Hindu  widows  of 
the  old  type,  this  gave  me  a  shock.  The  author  evidently  meant  to 
praise  me  for  some  qualities  he  thought  I  possessed — a  spirit  of  gentle 
resignation  and  renunciation  and  a  smileless  devotion  to  work.  I  had 
hoped  that  I  possessed — and,  indeed,  I  wish  that  Hindu  widows  would 
possess — more  active  and  aggressive  qualities  and  the  capacity  for 
humor  and  laughter.  Gandhiji  once  told  an  interviewer  that  if  he  had 
not  had  the  gift  of  humor  he  might  have  committed  suicide,  or  some 
thing  to  this  effect.  I  would  not  presume  to  go  so  far,  yet  life  certainly 
would  have  been  almost  intolerable  for  me  but  for  the  humor  and  light 
touches  that  some  people  gave  to  it. 

My  very  popularity  and  the  brave  addresses  that  came  my  way,  full 
(as  is,  indeed,  the  custom  of  all  such  addresses  in  India)  of  choice  and 
flowery  language  and  extravagant  conceits,  became  subjects  for  raillery 
in  the  circle  of  my  family  and  intimate  friends.  The  high-sounding  and 
pompous  words  and  titles  that  were  often  used  for  all  those  prominent 
in  the  national  movement,  were  picked  out  by  my  wife  and  sisters  and 
others  and  bandied  about  irreverently.  I  was  addressed  as  Bharat 
Bhushan — "Jewe"  °f  India,"  Tyagamurti — "O  Embodiment  of  Sacri 
fice";  this  light-hearted  treatment  soothed  me,  and  the  tension  of  those 
solemn  public  gatherings,  where  I  had  to  remain  on  my  best  behavior, 
gradually  relaxed.  Even  my  little  daughter  joined  in  the  game.  Only 
my  mother  insisted  on  taking  me  seriously,  and  she  never  wholly 
approved  of  any  sarcasm  or  raillery  at  the  expense  of  her  darling  boy. 
Father  was  amused;  he  had  a  way  of  quietly  expressing  his  deep  under 
standing  and  sympathy. 

But  all  these  shouting  crowds,  the  dull  and  wearying  public  func 
tions,  the  interminable  arguments,  and  the  dust  and  tumble  of  politics 
touched  me  on  the  surface  only,  though  sometimes  the  touch  was 
sharp  and  pointed.  My  real  conflict  lay  within  me,  a  conflict  of  ideas, 
desires,  and  loyalties,  of  subconscious  depths  struggling  with  outer  cir 
cumstances,  of  an  inner  hunger  unsatisfied.  I  became  a  battleground, 
where  various  forces  struggled  for  mastery.  I  sought  an  escape  from 
this;  I  tried  to  find  harmony  and  equilibrium,  and  in  this  attempt  I 
rushed  into  action.  That  gave  me  some  peace;  outer  conflict  relieved 
the  strain  of  the  inner  struggle. 

Why  am  I  writing  all  this  sitting  here  in  prison?  The  quest  is  still 
the  same,  in  prison  or  outside,  and  I  write  down  my  past  feelings  and 
experiences  in  the  hope  that  this  may  bring  me  some  peace  and  psychic 
satisfaction. 

155 


XXV 

CIVIL  DISOBEDIENCE  BEGINS 

INDEPENDENCE  DAY  CAME,  January  26,  1930,  and  it  revealed  to  us,  as  in 
a  flash,  the  earnest  and  enthusiastic  mood  of  the  country.  There  was 
something  vastly  impressive  about  the  great  gatherings  everywhere, 
peacefully  and  solemnly  taking  the  pledge  of  independence1  without 
any  speeches  or  exhortation.  This  celebration  gave  the  necessary  im 
petus  to  Gandhiji,  and  he  felt,  with  his  sure  touch  on  the  pulse  of  the 
people,  that  the  time  was  ripe  for  action.  Events  followed  then  in  quick 
succession,  like  a  drama  working  up  to  its  climax. 

As  civil  disobedience  approached  and  electrified  the  atmosphere,  our 
thoughts  went  back  to  the  movement  of  1921-22  and  the  manner  of 
its  sudden  suspension  after  Chauri  Chaura.  The  country  was  more  dis 
ciplined  now,  and  there  was  a  clearer  appreciation  of  the  nature  of  the 
struggle.  The  technique  was  understood  to  some  extent,  but  more  im 
portant  still  from  Gandhiji's  point  of  view,  it  was  fully  realized  by 
everyone  that  he  was  terribly  in  earnest  about  nonviolence.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  about  that  now,  as  there  probably  was  in  the  minds  of  some 
people  ten  years  before.  Despite  all  this,  how  could  we  possibly  be  cer 
tain  that  an  outbreak  of  violence  might  not  occur  in  some  locality 
either  spontaneously  or  as  the  result  of  an  intrigue?  And,  if  such  an 
incident  occurred,  what  would  be  its  effect  on  our  civil  disobedience 
movement  ?  Would  it  be  suddenly  wound  up  as  before  ?  That  prospect 
was  most  disconcerting. 

Gandhiji  probably  thought  over  this  question  also  in  his  own  way, 
though  the  problem  that  seemed  to  trouble  him,  as  far  as  I  could  gather 
from  scraps  of  conversation,  was  put  differently. 

The  nonviolent  method  of  action  to  bring  about  a  change  for  the 
better  was  to  him  the  only  right  method  and,  if  rightly  pursued,  an 
infallible  method.  Must  it  be  said  that  this  method  required  a  specially 
favorable  atmosphere  for  its  functioning  and  success,  and  that  it  should 
not  be  tried  if  outward  conditions  were  not  suited  to  it?  That  led  to 
the  conclusion  that  the  nonviolent  method  was  not  meant  for  all  con 
tingencies,  and  was  thus  neither  a  universal  nor  an  infallible  method. 
This  conclusion  was  intolerable  for  Gandhiji,  for  he  firmly  believed 
that  it  was  a  universal  and  infallible  method.  Therefore,  necessarily, 
it  must  function  even  though  the  external  conditions  were  unfavorable, 

1  This  pledge  is  given  in  Appendix  A. 

I56 


and  even  in  the  midst  o£  strife  and  violence.  The  way  of  its  functioning 
might  be  varied  to  suit  varying  circumstances,  but  to  stop  it  would  be 
a  confession  of  failure  of  the  method  itself. 

Perhaps  his  mind  worked  in  some  such  way,  but  I  cannot  be  sure 
of  his  thoughts.  He  did  give  us  the  impression  that  there  was  a  slightly 
different  orientation  to  his  thinking,  and  that  civil  disobedience,  when 
it  came,  need  not  be  stopped  because  of  a  sporadic  act  of  violence.  If, 
however,  the  violence  became  in  any  way  part  of  the  movement  itself, 
then  it  ceased  to  be  a  peaceful  civil  disobedience  movement,  and  its 
activities  had  to  be  curtailed  or  varied.  This  assurance  went  a  long  way 
in  satisfying  many  of  us.  The  great  question  that  hung  in  the  air  now 
was — how?  How  were  we  to  begin?  What  form  of  civil  disobedience 
should  we  take  up  that  would  be  effective,  suited  to  the  circumstances, 
and  popular  with  the  masses  ?  And  then  the  Mahatma  gave  the  hint. 

Salt  suddenly  became  a  mysterious  word,  a  word  of  power.  The  salt 
tax  was  to  be  attacked,  the  salt  laws  were  to  be  broken.  We  were  be 
wildered  and  could  not  quite  fit  in  a  national  struggle  with  common 
salt.  Another  surprising  development  was  Gandhiji's  announcement  of 
his  "Eleven  Points."  What  was  the  point  of  making  a  list  of  some 
political  and  social  reforms — good  in  themselves,  no  doubt — when  we 
were  talking  in  terms  of  independence?  Did  Gandhiji  mean  the  same 
thing  when  he  used  this  term  as  we  did,  or  did  we  speak  a  different 
language?  We  had  no  time  to  argue,  for  events  were  on  the  move. 
They  were  moving  politically  before  our  eyes  from  day  to  day  in  India; 
and,  hardly  realized  by  us  at  the  time,  they  were  moving  fast  in  the 
world  and  holding  it  in  the  grip  of  a  terrible  depression.  Prices  were 
falling,  and  the  city  dwellers  welcomed  this  as  a  sign  of  the  plenty  to 
come,  but  the  farmer  and  the  tenant  saw  the  prospect  with  alarm. 

Then  came  Gandhiji's  correspondence  with  the  Viceroy  and  the  be 
ginning  of  the  Dandi  Salt  March  from  the  Ashrama  at  Sabarmati.  As 
people  followed  the  fortunes  of  this  marching  column  of  pilgrims  from 
day  to  day,  the  temperature  of  the  country  went  up.  A  meeting  of  the 
All-India  Congress  Committee  was  held  at  Ahmedabad  to  make  final 
arrangements  for  the  struggle  that  was  now  almost  upon  us.  The 
leader  in  the  struggle  was  not  present,  for  he  was  already  tramping 
with  his  pilgrim  band  to  the  sea,  and  he  refused  to  return.  The  All- 
India  Congress  Committee  planned  what  should  be  done  in  case  of 
arrests,  and  large  powers  were  given  to  the  president  to  act  on  behalf 
of  the  Committee,  in  case  it  could  not  meet,  to  nominate  members  of 
the  Working  Committee  in  place  of  those  arrested,  and  to  nominate  a 

157 


successor  for  himself  with  the  same  powers.  Similar  powers  were  given 
by  provincial  and  local  Congress  committees  to  their  presidents. 

Thus  was  inaugurated  a  regime  when  so-called  "dictators"  flourished 
and  controlled  the  struggle  on  behalf  of  the  Congress.  Secretaries  of 
state  for  India  and  viceroys  and  governors  have  held  up  their  hands 
in  horror  and  proclaimed  how  vicious  and  degraded  was  the  Congress 
because  it  believed  in  dictatorships;  they,  of  course,  being  convinced 
adherents  of  democracy.  Occasionally  the  Moderate  press  in  India  has 
also  preached  to  us  the  virtues  of  democracy.  We  listened  to  all  this  in 
silence  (because  we  were  in  prison)  and  in  amazement.  Brazen-faced 
hypocrisy  could  hardly  go  further.  Here  was  India  being  governed 
forcibly  under  an  absolute  dictatorship  under  ordinances  and  suppres 
sion  of  every  kind  of  civil  liberty,  and  yet  our  rulers  talked  unctuously 
of  democracy.  Even  normally,  where  was  the  shadow  of  democracy  in 
India?  It  was  no  doubt  natural  for  the  British  Government  to  defend 
its  power  and  vested  interests  in  India  and  to  suppress  those  who 
sought  to  challenge  its  authority.  But  its  assertion  that  all  this  was  the 
democratic  method  was  worthy  of  record  for  future  generations  to  ad 
mire  and  ponder  over. 

The  Congress  had  to  face  a  situation  in  which  it  would  be  impos 
sible  for  it  to  function  normally;  when  it  would  be  declared  an  unlaw 
ful  organization,  and  its  committees  could  not  meet  for  consultation 
or  any  action,  except  secretly.  Secrecy  was  not  encouraged  by  us,  as  we 
wanted  to  keep  our  struggle  a  perfectly  open  one,  and  thus  to  keep  up 
our  tone  and  influence  the  masses.  But  even  secret  work  did  not  take 
us  far.  All  our  leading  men  and  women  at  the  center,  as  well  as  in  the 
provinces  and  in  local  areas,  were  bound  to  be  arrested.  Who  was  then 
to  carry  on?  The  only  course  open  to  us  was,  after  the  fashion  of  an 
army  in  action,  to  make  arrangements  for  new  commanders  to  be  ap 
pointed  as  old  ones  were  disabled.  We  could  not  sit  down  in  the  field 
of  battle  and  hold  committee  meetings.  Indeed,  we  did  so  sometimes, 
but  the  object  of  this,  and  the  inevitable  result,  was  to  have  the  whole 
committee  arrested  en  bloc.  We  did  not  even  have  the  advantage  of  a 
general  staff  sitting  safely  behind  the  lines,  or  a  civilian  cabinet  in  still 
greater  safety  elsewhere.  Our  general  staffs  and  cabinets  had  to  keep, 
by  the  very  nature  of  our  struggle,  in  the  most  advanced  and  exposed 
positions,  and  they  were  arrested  and  removed  in  the  early  stages.  And 
what  was  the  power  we  conferred  on  our  "dictators"?  It  was  an  honor 
for  them  to  be  put  forward  as  symbols  of  the  national  determination  to 
carry  on  the  struggle;  but  the  actual  authority  they  had  was  largely 


D.  G.  Tendnlfyr 

Indian  peasants  marching  to  a  session  of  the  Indian  National  Con 
gress  carry  a  banner  reading,  "Away  with  serfdom" 


Jawaharlal  Nehru's  younger  sister,  Mrs.  Krishna 

Huteesingh  (left), 'and  his  wife,  Kamala,  in  the 

male  dress  which  they  adopted  as  volunteers  in  the 

civil  disobedience  campaign  of  1930 


confined  to  "dictating"  themselves  to  prison.  They  could  only  function 
at  all  when  the  committee  they  represented  could  not  meet  on  account 
of  force  majeure;  and  wherever  and  whenever  that  committee  could 
meet,  the  "dictator"  lost  his  individual  authority,  such  as  it  was.  He  or 
she  could  not  tackle  any  basic  problems  or  principles;  only  minor  and 
superficial  phases  of  the  movement  could  be  affected  by  the  "dictator." 
Congress  "dictatorships"  were  really  steppingstones  to  prison;  and 
from  day  to  day  this  process  went  on,  new  persons  taking  the  place  of 
those  who  were  disabled. 

And  so,  having  made  our  final  preparations,  we  bade  good-by  to  our 
comrades  of  the  All-India  Congress  Committee  at  Ahmedabad,  for 
none  knew  when  or  how  we  would  meet  again,  or  whether  we  would 
meet  at  all.  We  hastened  back  to  our  posts  to  give  the  finishing  touches 
to  our  local  arrangements,  in  accordance  with  the  new  directions  of  the 
All-India  Congress  Committee,  and,  as  Sarojini  Naidu  said,  to  pack  up 
our  toothbrushes  for  the  journey  to  prison. 

On  our  way  back,  father  and  I  went  to  see  Gandhiji.  He  was  at  Jam- 
busar  with  his  pilgrim  band,  and  we  spent  a  few  hours  with  him  there 
and  then  saw  him  stride  away  with  his  party  to  the  next  stage  in  the 
journey  to  the  salt  sea.  That  was  my  last  glimpse  of  him  then  as  I  saw 
him,  staff  in  hand,  marching  along  at  the  head  of  his  followers,  with 
firm  step  and  a  peaceful  but  undaunted  look.  It  was  a  moving  sight. 

At  Jambusar  my  father  had  decided,  in  consultation  with  Gandhiji, 
to  make  a  gift  of  his  old  house  in  Allahabad  to  the  nation  and  to  re 
name  this  Swaraj  Bhawan.  On  his  return  to  Allahabad  he  made  the 
announcement,  and  actually  handed  over  charge  to  the  Congress  peo 
ple;  part  of  the  large  house  being  converted  into  a  hospital.  He  was 
unable  to  go  through  the  legal  formalities  at  the  time,  and,  a  year  and 
a  half  later,  I  created  a  trust  of  the  property,  in  accordance  with  his 
wishes. 

April  came,  and  Gandhiji  drew  near  to  the  sea,  and  we  waited  for 
the  word  to  begin  civil  disobedience  by  an  attack  on  the  salt  laws.  For 
months  past  we  had  been  drilling  our  volunteers,  and  Kamala  and 
Krishna  (my  wife  and  sister)  had  both  joined  them  and  donned  male 
attire  for  the  purpose.  The  volunteers  had,  of  course,  no  arms  or  even 
sticks.  The  object  of  training  them  was  to  make  them  more  efficient 
in  their  work  and  capable  of  dealing  with  large  crowds.  The  6th  of 
April  was  the  first  day  of  the  National  Week,  which  is  celebrated  an 
nually  in  memory  of  the  happenings  in  1919,  from  Satyagraha  Day  to 
Jallianwala  Bagh.  On  that  day  Gandhiji  began  the  breach  of  the  salt 

159 


laws  at  Dandi  beach,  and  three  or  four  days  later  permission  was  given 
to  all  Congress  organizations  to  do  likewise  and  begin  civil  disobedi 
ence  in  their  own  areas. 

It  seemed  as  though  a  spring  had  been  suddenly  released;  all  over 
the  country,  in  town  and  village,  salt  manufacture  was  the  topic  of  the 
day,  and  many  curious  expedients  were  adopted  to  produce  salt.  We 
knew  precious  little  about  it,  and  so  we  read  it  up  where  we  could  and 
issued  leaflets  giving  directions;  we  collected  pots  and  pans  and  ulti 
mately  succeeded  in  producing  some  unwholesome  stuff,  which  we 
waved  about  in  triumph  and  often  auctioned  for  fancy  prices.  It  was 
really  immaterial  whether  the  stuff  was  good  or  bad;  the  main  thing 
was  to  commit  a  breach  of  the  obnoxious  salt  law,  and  we  were  success 
ful  in  that,  even  though  the  quality  of  our  salt  was  poor.  As  we  saw 
the  abounding  enthusiasm  of  the  people  and  the  way  salt-making  was 
spreading  like  a  prairie  fire,  we  felt  a  little  abashed  and  ashamed  for 
having  questioned  the  efficacy  of  this  method  when  it  was  first  pro 
posed  by  Gandhiji.  And  we  marveled  at  the  amazing  knack  of  the  man 
to  impress  the  multitude  and  make  it  act  in  an  organized  way. 

I  was  arrested  on  the  I4th  of  April  as  I  was  entraining  for  Raipur  in 
the  Central  Provinces,  where  I  was  going  to  attend  a  conference.  That 
very  day  I  was  tried  in  prison  and  sentenced  to  six  months'  imprison 
ment  under  the  Salt  Act.  In  anticipation  of  arrest  I  had  nominated 
(under  the  new  powers  given  to  me  by  the  All-India  Congress  Com 
mittee)  Gandhiji  to  act  as  Congress  president  in  my  absence,  but,  fear 
ing  his  refusal,  my  second  nomination  was  for  father.  As  I  expected, 
Gandhiji  would  not  agree,  and  so  father  became  the  acting  president 
of  the  Congress.  He  was  in  poor  health;  nevertheless  he  threw  himself 
into  the  campaign  with  great  energy;  and,  during  those  early  months, 
his  strong  guidance  and  enforcement  of  discipline  was  of  tremendous 
benefit  to  the  movement.  The  movement  benefited  greatly,  but  it  was 
at  the  cost  of  such  health  and  physical  fitness  as  had  remained  in  him. 

Those  were  days  of  stirring  news — processions  and  lathee  charges  and 
firing,  frequent  hartals  to  celebrate  noted  arrests,  and  special  observ 
ances,  like  Peshawar  Day,  Garhwali  Day,  etc.  For  the  time  being  the 
boycott  of  foreign  cloth  and  all  British  goods  was  almost  complete. 
When  I  heard  that  my  aged  mother  and,  of  course,  my  sisters  used  to 
stand  under  the  hot  summer  sun  picketing  before  foreign  cloth  shops, 
I  was  greatly  moved.  Kamala  did  so  also,  but  she  did  something  more. 
She  threw  herself  into  the  movement  in  Allahabad  city  and  district 
with  an  energy  and  determination  which  amazed  me,  who  thought  I 

160 


had  known  her  so  well  for  so  many  years.  She  forgot  her  ill-health  and 
rushed  about  the  whole  day  in  the  sun,  and  showed  remarkable  powers 
of  organization.  I  heard  of  this  vaguely  in  jail.  Later,  when  my  father 
joined  me  there,  I  was  to  learn  from  him  how  much  he  had  himself 
appreciated  Kamala's  work,  and  especially  her  organizing  capacity.  He 
did  not  at  all  fancy  my  mother  or  the  girls  rushing  about  in  the  hot 
sun,  but,  except  for  an  occasional  remonstrance,  he  did  not  interfere. 

The  biggest  news  of  all  that  came  to  us  in  those  early  days  was  of  the 
occurrences  in  Peshawar  on  April  23,*  and  subsequently  all  over  the 
Frontier  Province.  Anywhere  in  India  such  a  remarkable  exhibition  of 
disciplined  and  peaceful  courage  before  machine-gun  firing  would  have 
stirred  the  country.  In  the  Frontier  Province  it  had  an  additional  sig 
nificance,  for  the  Pathans,  noted  for  their  courage,  were  not  noted  for 
their  peaceful  nature;  and  these  Pathans  had  set  an  example  which  was 
unique  in  India.  In  the  Frontier  Province  also  occurred  the  famous 
incident  of  the  refusal  to  fire  on  the  civil  population  by  the  Garhwali 
soldiers.  They  refused  to  fire  because  of  a  soldier's  distaste  for  firing 
on  an  unarmed  crowd,  and  because,  no  doubt,  of  sympathy  with  the 
crowd.  But  even  sympathy  is  not  usually  enough  to  induce  a  soldier  to 
take  the  grave  step  of  refusing  to  obey  his  officer's  orders.  He  knows 
the  consequences.  The  Garhwalis  probably  did  so  (in  common  with 
some  other  regiments  elsewhere  whose  disobedience  did  not  receive 
publicity)  because  of  a  mistaken  notion  that  the  British  power  was  col 
lapsing.  Only  when  such  an  idea  takes  possession  of  the  soldier  does  he 
dare  to  act  according  to  his  own  sympathies  and  inclinations.  Probably 
for  a  few  days  or  weeks  the  general  commotion  and  civil  disobedience 
led  some  people  to  think  that  the  last  days  of  British  rule  had  come, 
and  this  influenced  part  of  the  Indian  Army.  Soon  it  became  obvious 
that  no  such  thing  was  going  to  happen  in  the  near  future,  and  then 
there  was  no  more  disobedience  in  the  army.  Care  was  also  taken  not 
to  put  them  in  compromising  positions. 

Many  strange  things  happened  in  those  days,  but  undoubtedly  the 
most  striking  was  the  part  of  the  women  in  the  national  struggle.  They 
came  out  in  large  numbers  from  the  seclusion  of  their  homes  and, 
though  unused  to  public  activity,  threw  themselves  into  the  heart  of 
the  struggle.  The  picketing  of  foreign  cloth  and  liquor  shops  they  made 
their  preserve.  Enormous  processions  consisting  of  women  alone  were 
taken  out  in  all  the  cities;  and,  generally,  the  attitude  of  the  women 

3  When  British  machine-guns  and  airplanes  as  well  quelled  a  mass  protest  against 
certain  governmental  measures. — Ed. 

161 


was  more  unyielding  than  that  of  the  men.  Often  they  became  Con 
gress  "dictators"  in  provinces  and  in  local  areas. 

The  breach  of  the  Salt  Act  soon  became  just  one  activity,  and  civil 
resistance  spread  to  other  fields.  This  was  facilitated  by  the  promulga 
tion  of  various  ordinances  by  the  Viceroy  prohibiting  a  number  of 
activities.  As  these  ordinances  and  prohibitions  grew,  the  opportunities 
for  breaking  them  also  grew,  and  civil  resistance  took  the  form  of 
doing  the  very  thing  that  the  ordinance  was  intended  to  stop.  The  ini 
tiative  definitely  remained  with  the  Congress  and  the  people;  and,  as 
each  ordinance  law  failed  to  control  the  situation  from  the  point  of 
view  of  government,  fresh  ordinances  were  issued  by  the  Viceroy. 
Many  of  the  Congress  Working  Committee  members  had  been  ar 
rested,  but  it  continued  to  function  with  new  members  added  on  to  it, 
and  each  official  ordinance  was  countered  by  a  resolution  of  the  Work 
ing  Committee  giving  directions  as  to  how  to  meet  it.  These  directions 
were  carried  out  with  surprising  uniformity  all  over  this  country — with 
one  exception,  the  one  relating  to  the  publication  of  newspapers. 

When  an  ordinance  was  issued  for  the  further  control  of  the  press 
and  the  demand  of  security  from  newspapers,  the  Working  Committee 
called  upon  the  nationalist  press  to  refuse  to  give  any  security,  and  to 
stop  publication  instead.  This  was  a  hard  pill  to  swallow  for  the  news 
papermen,  for  just  then  the  public  demand  for  news  was  very  great. 
Still  the  great  majority  of  newspapers — some  Moderate  papers  excepted 
— stopped  publication,  with  the  result  that  all  manner  of  rumors  began 
to  spread.  But  they  could  not  hold  out  for  long;  the  temptation  was  too 
great,  and  the  sight  of  their  Moderate  rivals  picking  up  their  business 
too  irritating.  So  most  of  them  drifted  back  to  publication. 

Gandhiji  had  been  arrested  on  May  5.  After  his  arrest  big  raids  on 
the  salt  pans  and  depots  were  organized  on  the  west  coast.  There  were 
very  painful  incidents  of  police  brutality  during  these  raids.  Bombay 
then  occupied  the  center  of  the  picture  with  its  tremendous  hartals  and 
processions  and  lathi  charges.  Several  emergency  hospitals  grew  up  to 
treat  the  victims  of  these  lathee  charges.  Much  that  was  remarkable  hap 
pened  in  Bombay,  and,  being  a  great  city,  it  had  the  advantage  of  pub 
licity.  Occurrences  of  equal  importance  in  small  towns  and  the  rural 
areas  received  no  publicity. 

In  the  latter  half  of  June  my  father  went  to  Bombay,  and  with  him 
went  my  mother  and  Kamala.  They  had  a  great  reception,  and  during 
their  stay  there  occurred  some  of  the  fiercest  of  the  lathee  charges.  These 
were,  indeed,  becoming  frequent  occurrences  in  Bombay.  A  fortnight 

162 


or  so  later  an  extraordinary  all-night  ordeal  took  place  there,  when 
Malaviyaji  and  members  of  the  Working  Committee,  at  the  head  of  a 
huge  crowd,  spent  the  night  facing  the  police,  who  blocked  their  way. 

On  his  return  from  Bombay  father  was  arrested  on  June  30,  and 
Syed  Mahmud  was  arrested  with  him.  They  were  arrested  as  acting 
president  and  secretary  of  the  Working  Committee,  which  was  de 
clared  unlawful.  Both  of  them  were  sentenced  to  six  months.  My 
father's  arrest  was  probably  due  to  his  having  issued  a  statement  defin 
ing  the  duties  of  a  soldier  or  policeman  in  the  event  of  an  order  to  fire 
on  civil  populations  being  given.  The  statement  was  strictly  a  legal 
affair,  and  contained  the  present  British  Indian  law  on  this  point 
Nevertheless,  it  was  considered  a  provocative  and  dangerous  document. 

The  Bombay  visit  had  been  a  great  strain  on  father;  from  early 
morning  to  late  at  night  he  was  kept  busy,  and  he  had  to  take  the  re 
sponsibility  for  every  important  decision.  He  had  long  been  unwell, 
but  now  he  returned  fagged  out,  and  decided,  at  the  urgent  advice  of 
his  doctors,  to  take  complete  rest  immediately.  He  arranged  to  go  to 
Mussoorie  and  packed  up  for  it,  but  the  day  before  he  intended  leaving 
for  Mussoorie,  he  appeared  before  us  in  our  barrack  in  Naini  Central 
Prison. 


XXVI 

IN  NAINI  PRISON 

I  HAD  GONE  back  to  jail  after  nearly  seven  years,  and  memories  of  prison 
life  had  somewhat  faded.  I  was  in  Naini  Central  Prison,  one  of  the 
big  prisons  of  the  province,  and  I  was  to  have  the  novel  experience  of 
being  kept  by  myself.  My  enclosure  was  apart  from  the  big  enclosure 
containing  the  jail  population  of  between  2200  and  2300.  It  was  a 
small  enclosure,  circular  in  shape,  with  a  diameter  of  about  one  hun 
dred  feet,  and  with  a  circular  wall  about  fifteen  feet  high  surrounding 
it.  In  the  middle  of  it  was  a  drab  and  ugly  building  containing  four 
cells.  I  was  given  two  of  these  cells,  connecting  with  each  other,  one 
to  serve  as  a  bathroom  and  lavatory.  The  others  remained  unoccupied 
for  some  time. 

After  the  exciting  and  very  active  life  I  had  been  leading  outside, 
I  felt  rather  lonely  and  depressed.  I  was  tired  out,  and  for  two  or  three 
days  I  slept  a  great  deal.  The  hot  weather  had  already  begun,  and  I 


was  permitted  to  sleep  at  night  in  the  open,  outside  my  cell  in  the 
narrow  space  between  the  inner  building  and  the  enclosing  wall.  My 
bed  was  heavily  chained  up,  lest  I  might  take  it  up  and  walk  away, 
or,  more  probably,  to  avoid  the  bed's  being  used  as  a  kind  of  scaling 
ladder  to  climb  the  wall  of  the  enclosure.  The  nights  were  full  of 
strange  noises.  The  convict  overseers,  who  guarded  the  main  wall, 
frequendy  shouted  to  each  other  in  varying  keys,  sometimes  lengthen 
ing  out  their  cries  till  they  sounded  like  the  moaning  of  a  distant 
wind;  the  night  watchmen  in  the  barracks  were  continually  counting 
away  in  a  loud  voice  the  prisoners  under  their  charge  and  shouting 
out  that  all  was  well;  and  several  times  a  night  some  jail  official,  going 
his  rounds,  visited  our  enclosure  and  shouted  an  inquiry  to  the  warder 
on  duty.  As  my  enclosure  was  some  distance  away  from  the  others, 
most  of  these  voices  reached  me  indistinctly,  and  I  could  not  make 
out  at  first  what  they  were.  At  times  I  felt  as  if  I  were  on  the  verge  of 
the  forest,  and  the  peasantry  were  shouting  to  keep  the  wild  animals 
away  from  their  fields;  sometimes  it  seemed  the  forest  itself  and  the 
beasts  of  the  night  were  keeping  up  their  nocturnal  chorus. 

Was  it  my  fancy,  I  wonder,  or  is  it  a  fact  that  a  circular  wall  reminds 
one  more  of  captivity  than  a  rectangular  one?  The  absence  of  corners 
and  angles  adds  to  the  sense  of  oppression.  In  the  daytime  that  wall 
even  encroached  on  the  sky  and  only  allowed  a  glimpse  of  a  narrow- 
bounded  portion.  With  a  wistful  eye  I  looked 

Upon  that  little  tent  of  blue 

Which  prisoners  call  the  s\y, 

And  at  every  drifting  cloud  that  went 

With  sails  of  silver  by. 

At  night  that  wall  enclosed  me  all  the  more,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
at  the  bottom  of  a  well.  Or  else  that  part  of  the  star-lit  sky  that  I  saw 
ceased  to  be  real  and  seemed  part  of  an  artificial  planetarium. 

My  barrack  and  enclosure  were  popularly  known  throughout  the 
jail  as  the  Kuttaghar — the  Dog  House.  This  was  an  old  name  which 
had  nothing  to  do  with  me.  The  little  barrack  had  been  built  origi 
nally,  apart  from  all  others,  for  especially  dangerous  criminals  who  had 
to  be  isolated.  Latterly  it  had  been  used  for  political  prisoners,  detenus, 
and  the  like  who  could  thus  be  kept  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  jail. 
In  front  of  the  enclosure,  some  distance  away,  was  an  erection  that 
gave  me  a  shock  when  I  first  had  a  glimpse  of  it  from  my  barrack. 
It  looked  like  a  huge  cage,  and  men  went  round  and  round  inside  it. 
I  found  out  later  that  it  was  a  water  pump  worked  by  human  labor, 

164 


as  many  as  sixteen  persons  being  employed  at  a  time.  I  got  used  to 
it,  as  one  gets  used  to  everything;  but  it  has  always  seemed  to  me 
one  of  the  most  foolish  and  barbarous  ways  of  utilizing  human  labor 
power.  And,  whenever  I  pass  it,  I  think  of  the  zoo. 

For  some  days  I  was  not  permitted  to  go  outside  my  enclosure  for 
exercise  or  any  other  purpose.  I  was  later  allowed  to  go  out  for  half 
an  hour  in  the  early  mornings,  when  it  was  almost  dark,  and  to  walk 
or  run  under  the  main  wall.  That  early  morning  hour  had  been  fixed 
for  me  so  that  I  might  not  come  in  contact  with,  or  be  seen  by,  the 
other  prisoners.  I  liked  that  outing,  and  it  refreshed  me  tremendously. 
In  order  to  compress  as  much  open-air  exercise  as  I  could  in  the  short 
time  at  my  disposal,  I  took  to  running  and  gradually  increased  this  to 
over  two  miles  daily. 

I  used  to  get  up  very  early  in  the  morning,  about  four,  or  even  half- 
past  three,  when  it  was  quite  dark.  Partly  this  was  due  to  going  to 
bed  early,  as  the  light  provided  was  not  good  for  much  reading.  I 
liked  to  watch  the  stars,  and  the  position  of  some  well-known  con 
stellation  would  give  me  the  approximate  time.  From  where  I  lay  I 
could  just  see  the  pole  star  peeping  over  the  wall,  and,  as  it  was 
always  there,  I  found  it  extraordinarily  comforting.  Surrounded  by  a 
revolving  sky,  it  seemed  to  be  a  symbol  of  cheerful  constancy  and 
perseverence. 

For  a  month  I  had  no  companion,  but  I  was  not  alone,  as  I  had  the 
warder  and  the  convict  overseers  and  a  convict  cook  and  cleaner  in 
my  enclosure.  Occasionally  other  prisoners  came  there  on  some  busi 
ness,  most  of  them  being  convict  overseers — C.O.'s — serving  out  long 
sentences.  "Lifers" — convicts  sentenced  for  life — were  common.  Usually 
a  life  sentence  was  supposed  to  terminate  after  twenty  years,  or  even 
less,  but  there  were  many  in  prison  then  who  had  served  more  than 
twenty  years  already.  I  saw  one  very  remarkable  case  in  Naini.  Prison 
ers  carry  about,  attached  to  their  clothes  at  the  shoulder,  little  wooden 
boards  giving  information  about  their  convictions  and  mentioning  the 
date  when  release  is  due.  On  the  board  of  one  prisoner  I  read  that 
his  date  of  release  was  1996!  He  had  already,  in  1930,  served  out  sev 
eral  years,  and  he  was  then  a  person  of  middle  age.  Probably  he  had 
been  given  several  sentences,  and  they  had  been  added  up  one  after 
the  other;  the  total,  I  think,  amounting  to  seventy-five  years. 

For  years  and  years  many  of  these  "lifers"  do  not  see  a  child  or 
woman,  or  even  animals.  They  lose  touch  with  the  outside  world  com 
pletely,  and  have  no  human  contacts  left.  They  brood  and  wrap  them- 


selves  in  angry  thoughts  of  fear  and  revenge  and  hatred;  forget  the 
good  of  the  world,  the  kindness  and  joy,  and  live  only  wrapped  up  in 
the  evil,  till  gradually  even  hatred  loses  its  edge  and  life  becomes  a 
soulless  thing,  a  machinelike  routine.  Like  automatons  they  pass  their 
days,  each  exactly  like  the  other,  and  have  few  sensations  except  one 
— fear!  From  time  to  time  the  prisoner's  body  is  weighed  and  meas 
ured.  But  how  is  one  to  weigh  the  mind  and  the  spirit  which  wilt  and 
stunt  themselves  and  wither  away  in  this  terrible  atmosphere  of  op 
pression?  People  argue  against  the  death  penalty,  and  their  arguments 
appeal  to  me  greatly.  But  when  I  see  the  long-drawn-out  agony  of  a 
life  spent  in  prison,  I  feel  that  it  is  perhaps  better  to  have  that  penalty 
rather  than  to  kill  a  person  slowly  and  by  degrees.  One  of  the  "lifers" 
came  up  to  me  once  and  asked  me :  "What  of  us  'lifers'  ?  Will  Swaraj 
take  us  out  of  this  hell?" 

Who  are  these  "lifers"?  Many  of  them  come  in  gang  cases,  when 
large  numbers,  as  many  as  fifty  or  a  hundred,  may  be  convicted  en  bloc. 
Some  of  these  are  probably  guilty,  but  I  doubt  if  most  of  those  con 
victed  are  really  guilty;  it  is  easy  to  get  people  involved  in  such  cases. 
An  approver's  evidence,  a  little  identification,  is  all  that  is  needed. 
Dacoits  are  increasing  nowadays,  and  the  prison  population  goes  up 
year  by  year.  If  people  starve,  what  are  they  to  do?  Judges  and  mag 
istrates  wax  eloquent  about  the  increase  of  crime  but  are  blind  to  the 
obvious  economic  causes  of  it. 

Then  there  are  the  agriculturists  who  have  a  little  village  riot  over 
some  land  dispute,  lathis  fly  about,  and  somebody  dies — result,  many 
people  in  jail  for  life  or  for  a  long  term.  Often  all  the  menfolk  in  a 
family  will  be  imprisoned  in  this  way,  leaving  the  women  to  carry  on 
as  best  they  can.  Not  one  of  these  is  a  criminal  type.  Generally  they 
are  fine  young  men,  considerably  above  the  average  villager,  both 
physically  and  mentally.  A  litde  training,  some  diversion  of  interest  to 
other  subjects  and  jobs,  and  these  people  would  be  valuable  assets  to 
the  country. 

Indian  prisons  contain,  of  course,  hardened  criminals,  persons  who 
are  aggressively  antisocial  and  dangerous  to  the  community.  But  I 
have  been  amazed  to  find  large  numbers  of  fine  types  in  prison,  boys 
and  men,  whom  I  would  trust  unhesitatingly.  I  do  not  know  what  the 
proportion  of  real  criminals  to  noncriminal  types  is,  and  probably  no 
one  in  the  prison  department  has  ever  even  thought  of  this  distinction. 
A  more  sensible  economic  policy,  more  employment,  more  education 
would  soon  empty  out  our  prisons.  But  of  course  to  make  that  success- 

166 


ful,  a  radical  plan,  affecting  the  whole  of  our  social  fabric,  is  essential. 
The  only  other  real  alternative  is  what  the  British  Government  is  do 
ing:  increasing  its  police  forces  and  enlarging  its  prisons  in  India. 
The  number  of  persons  sent  to  jail  in  India  is  appalling.  In  a  recent 
report  issued  by  the  secretary  of  the  All-India  Prisoners*  Aid  Society, 
it  is  stated  that  in  the  Bombay  Presidency  alone  128,000  persons  were 
sent  to  jail  in  1933,  and  the  figure  for  Bengal  for  the  same  year  was 
124,000.  I  do  not  know  the  figures  for  all  the  provinces,  but  if  the 
total  for  two  provinces  exceeds  a  quarter  of  a  million,  it  is  quite  pos 
sible  that  the  all-India  total  approaches  the  million  mark.  This  figure 
does  not,  of  course,  represent  the  permanent  jail  population,  for  a  large 
number  of  persons  get  short  sentences.  The  permanent  population  will 
be  very  much  less,  but  still  it  must  be  enormous.  Some  of  the  major 
provinces  in  India  are  said  to  have  the  biggest  prison  administrations 
in  the  world.  The  United  Provinces  are  among  those  supposed  to  have 
this  doubtful  honor,  and  very  probably  they  have,  or  had,  one  of  the 
most  backward  and  reactionary  administrations.  Not  the  least  effort 
is  made  to  consider  the  prisoner  as  an  individual,  a  human  being,  and 
to  improve  or  look  after  his  mind.  The  one  thing  the  United  Provinces 
administration  excels  in  is  keeping  its  prisoners.  There  are  remark 
ably  few  attempts  to  escape,  and  I  doubt  if  one  in  ten  thousand  suc 
ceeds  in  escaping. 

One  of  the  most  saddening  features  of  the  prisons  is  the  large  num 
ber  of  boys,  from  fifteen  upward,  who  are  to  be  found  in  them.  Most 
of  them  are  bright-looking  lads  who,  if  given  the  chance,  might  easily 
make  good.  Lately  some  beginnings  have  been  made  to  teach  them 
the  elements  of  reading  and  writing  but,  as  usual,  these  are  absurdly 
inadequate  and  inefficient.  There  are  very  few  opportunities  for  games 
or  recreation,  no  newspapers  of  any  kind  are  permitted  nor  are  books 
encouraged.  For  twelve  hours  or  more  all  prisoners  are  kept  locked 
up  in  their  barracks  or  cells  with  nothing  whatever  to  do  in  the  long 
evenings. 

Interviews  are  only  permitted  once  in  three  months,  and  so  are  letters 
— a  monstrously  long  period.  Even  so,  many  prisoners  cannot  take  ad 
vantage  of  them.  If  they  are  illiterate,  as  most  are,  they  have  to  rely 
on  some  jail  official  to  write  on  their  behalf;  and  the  latter,  not  being 
keen  on  adding  to  his  other  work,  usually  avoids  it.  Or,  if  a  letter  is 
written,  the  address  is  not  properly  given,  and  the  letter  does  not  arrive. 
Interviews  are  still  more  difficult.  Often  prisoners  are  transferred  to 
different  jails,  and  their  people  cannot  trace  them.  I  have  met  many 


prisoners  who  had  lost  complete  touch  with  their  families  for  years 
and  did  not  know  what  had  happened.  Interviews,  when  they  do  take 
place  after  three  months  or  more,  are  most  extraordinary.  A  number 
of  prisoners  and  their  interviewers  are  placed  together  on  either  side 
of  a  barrier,  and  they  all  try  to  talk  simultaneously.  There  is  a  great 
deal  of  shouting  at  each  other,  and  the  slight  human  touch  that  might 
have  come  from  the  interview  is  entirely  absent. 

A  very  small  number  of  prisoners,  ordinarily  not  exceeding  one  in  a 
thousand  (Europeans  excepted),  are  given  some  extra  privileges  in  the 
shape  of  better  food  and  more  frequent  interviews  and  letters.  During 
a  big  political  civil  resistance  movement,  when  scores  of  thousands  of 
political  prisoners  go  to  jail,  this  figure  of  special  class  prisoners  goes 
up  slightly,  but  even  so  it  is  very  low.  About  95  per  cent  of  these  politi 
cal  prisoners,  men  and  women,  are  treated  in  the  ordinary  way  and  are 
not  given  even  these  facilities. 

Some  individuals,  sentenced  for  revolutionary  activities  for  life  or 
long  terms  of  imprisonment,  are  often  kept  in  solitary  confinement  for 
long  periods.  In  the  United  Provinces,  I  believe,  all  such  persons  are 
automatically  kept  in  solitary  cellular  confinement.  Ordinarily,  this  soli 
tary  confinement  is  awarded  as  a  special  punishment  for  a  prison  of 
fense.  But  in  the  case  of  these  persons — usually  young  boys — they  are 
kept  alone  although  their  behavior  in  jail  might  be  exemplary.  Thus 
an  additional  and  very  terrible  punishment  is  added  by  the  jail  de 
partment  to  the  sentence  of  the  court,  without  any  reason  therefor.  This 
seems  very  extraordinary,  and  hardly  in  conformity  with  any  rule  of 
law.  Solitary  confinement,  even  for  a  short  period,  is  a  most  painful 
affair;  for  it  to  be  prolonged  for  years  is  a  terrible  thing.  It  means  the 
slow  and  continuous  deterioration  of  the  mind,  till  it  begins  to  border 
on  insanity;  and  the  appearance  of  a  look  of  vacancy,  or  a  frightened 
animal  type  of  expression.  It  is  the  killing  of  the  spirit  by  degrees,  the 
slow  vivisection  of  the  soul.  Even  if  a  man  survives  it,  he  becomes 
abnormal  and  an  absolute  misfit  in  the  world.  And  the  question  always 
arises — was  this  man  guilty  at  all  of  any  act  or  offense?  Police  methods 
in  India  have  long  been  suspect;  in  political  matters  they  are  doubly  so. 

European  or  Eurasian  prisoners,  whatever  their  crime  or  status,  are 
automatically  placed  in  a  higher  class  and  get  better  food,  lighter  work, 
and  more  interviews  and  letters.  A  weekly  visit  from  a  clergyman 
keeps  them  in  touch  with  outside  affairs.  The  parson  brings  them  for 
eign  illustrated  and  humorous  papers,  and  communicates  with  their 
families  when  necessary. 

168 


No  one  grudges  the  European  convicts  these  privileges,  for  they  are 
few  enough,  but  it  is  a  little  painful  to  see  the  utter  absence  of  any 
human  standard  in  the  treatment  of  others — men  and  women.  The 
convict  is  not  thought  of  as  an  individual  human  being,  and  so  he  or 
she  is  seldom  treated  as  such.  One  sees  in  prison  the  inhuman  side  of 
the  State  apparatus  of  administrative  repression  at  its  worst.  It  is  a 
machine  which  works  away  callously  and  unthinkingly,  crushing  all 
that  come  in  its  grip,  and  the  jail  rules  have  been  purposely  framed  to 
keep  this  machine  in  evidence.  Offered  to  sensitive  men  and  women, 
this  soulless  regime  is  a  torture  and  an  anguish  of  the  mind.  I  have 
seen  long-term  convicts  sometimes  breaking  down  at  the  dreariness  of 
it  all,  and  weeping  like  little  children.  And  a  word  of  sympathy  and 
encouragement,  so  rare  in  this  atmosphere,  has  suddenly  made  their 
faces  light  up  with  joy  and  gratitude. 

And  yet  among  the  prisoners  themselves  there  were  often  touching 
instances  of  charity  and  good  comradeship.  A  blind  "habitual"  prisoner 
was  once  discharged  after  thirteen  years.  After  this  long  period  he  was 
going  out,  wholly  unprovided  for,  into  a  friendless  world.  His  fellow 
convicts  were  eager  to  help  him,  but  they  could  not  do  much.  One  gave 
his  shirt  deposited  in  the  jail  office,  another  some  other  piece  of  cloth 
ing.  A  third  had  that  very  morning  received  a  new  pair  of  chappals 
(leather  sandals),  and  he  had  shown  them  to  me  with  some  pride.  It 
was  a  great  acquisition  in  prison.  But,  when  he  saw  this  blind  com 
panion  of  many  years  going  out  barefooted,  he  willingly  parted  with 
his  new  chappals.  I  thought  then  that  there  appeared  to  be  more 
charity  inside  the  jail  than  outside  it. 

That  year  1930  was  full  of  dramatic  situations  and  inspiring  happen 
ings;  what  surprised  most  was  the  amazing  power  of  Gandhiji  to 
inspire  and  enthuse  a  whole  people.  There  was  something  almost  hyp 
notic  about  it,  and  we  remembered  the  words  used  by  Gokhale  about 
him:  how  he  had  the  power  of  making  heroes  out  of  clay.  Peaceful 
civil  disobedience  as  a  technique  of  action  for  achieving  great  national 
ends  seemed  to  have  justified  itself,  and  a  quiet  confidence  grew  in 
the  country,  shared  by  friend  and  opponent  alike,  that  we  were  march 
ing  toward  victory.  A  strange  excitement  filled  those  who  were  active 
in  the  movement,  and  some  of  this  even  crept  inside  the  jail.  "Swaraj 
is  coming!"  said  the  ordinary  convicts;  and  they  waited  impatiently 
for  it,  in  the  selfish  hope  that  it  might  do  them  some  good.  The 
warders,  coming  in  contact  with  the  gossip  of  the  bazaars,  also  ex- 

169 


pected  that  Swaraj  was  near;  the  petty  jail  official  grew  a  little  more 
nervous. 

We  had  no  daily  newspapers  in  prison,  but  a  Hindu  weekly  brought 
us  some  news,  and  often  this  news  would  set  our  imaginations  afire. 
Daily  lathee  charges,  sometimes  firing,  martial  law  at  Sholapur  with 
sentences  of  ten  years  for  carrying  the  national  flag.  We  felt  proud  of 
our  people,  and  especially  of  our  womenfolk,  all  over  the  country.  I 
had  a  special  feeling  of  satisfaction  because  of  the  activities  of  my 
mother,  wife,  and  sisters,  as  well  as  many  girl  cousins  and  friends;  and, 
though  I  was  separated  from  them  and  was  in  prison,  we  grew  nearer 
to  each  other,  bound  by  a  new  sense  of  comradeship  in  a  great  cause. 
The  family  seemed  to  merge  into  a  larger  group,  and  yet  to  retain  its 
old  flavor  and  intimacy.  Kamala  surprised  me,  for  her  energy  and 
enthusiasm  overcame  her  physical  ill-health,  and,  for  some  time  at 
least,  she  kept  well  in  spite  of  strenuous  activities. 

The  thought  that  I  was  having  a  relatively  easy  time  in  prison,  at  a 
time  when  others  were  facing  danger  and  suffering  outside,  began  to 
oppress  me.  I  longed  to  go  out;  and,  as  I  could  not  do  that,  I  made 
my  life  in  prison  a  hard  one,  full  of  work.  I  used  to  spin  daily  for 
nearly  three  hours  on  my  own  charJ^ha;  for  another  two  or  three  hours 
I  did  newar  weaving,  which  I  had  especially  asked  for  from  the  jail 
authorities.  I  liked  these  activities.  They  kept  me  occupied  without 
undue  strain  or  requiring  too  much  attention,  and  they  soothed  the 
fever  of  my  mind.  I  read  a  great  deal,  and  otherwise  busied  myself 
with  cleaning  up,  washing  my  clothes,  etc.  The  manual  labor  I  did  was 
of  my  own  choice,  as  my  imprisonment  was  "simple," 

And  so,  between  thought  of  outside  happenings  and  my  jail  routine, 
I  passed  my  days  in  Naini  Prison.  As  I  watched  the  working  of  an  In 
dian  prison,  it  struck  me  that  it  was  not  unlike  the  British  government 
of  India.  There  is  great  efficiency  in  the  apparatus  of  government,  which 
goes  to  strengthen  the  hold  of  the  Government  on  the  country,  and 
little  or  no  care  for  the  human  material  of  the  country.  Outwardly  the 
prison  must  appear  efficiently  run,  and  to  some  extent  this  was  true. 
But  no  one  seemed  to  think  that  the  main  purpose  of  the  prison  must 
be  to  improve  and  help  the  unhappy  individuals  who  come  to  it.  Break 
them! — that  is  the  idea,  so  that  by  the  time  they  go  out,  they  may  not 
have  the  least  bit  of  spirit  left  in  them.  And  how  is  the  prison  con 
trolled,  and  the  convicts  kept  in  check  and  punished?  Very  largely 
with  the  help  of  the  convicts  themselves,  some  of  whom  are  made  con 
vict  warders  (C.W.'s)  or  convict  overseers  (C.O.'s),  and  are  induced  to 

170 


co-operate  with  the  authorities  because  of  fear,  and  in  the  hope  of 
rewards  and  special  remissions.  There  are  relatively  few  paid  non- 
convict  warders;  most  of  the  guarding  inside  the  prison  is  done  by 
convict  warders  and  C.O.'s.  A  widespread  system  of  spying  pervades 
the  prison,  convicts  being  encouraged  to  become  stool  pigeons  and  to 
spy  on  one  another;  and  no  combination  or  joint  action  is,  of  course, 
permitted  among  the  prisoners.  This  is  easy  to  understand,  for  only  by 
keeping  them  divided  up  could  they  be  kept  in  check. 

Outside,  in  the  government  of  our  country,  we  see  much  the  same, 
on  a  larger,  though  less  obvious,  scale.  But  there  the  C.W.'s  or  C.O.'s 
are  known  differently.  They  have  impressive  tides,  and  their  liveries 
of  office  are  more  gorgeous.  And  behind  them,  as  in  prison,  stands  the 
armed  guard  with  weapons  ever  ready  to  enforce  conformity. 

How  important  and  essential  is  a  prison  to  the  modern  State!  The 
prisoner  at  least  begins  to  think  so,  and  the  numerous  administrative 
and  other  functions  of  the  Government  appear  almost  superficial  be 
fore  the  basic  functions  of  the  prison,  the  police,  the  army.  In  prison 
one  begins  to  appreciate  the  Marxian  theory,  that  the  State  is  really 
the  coercive  apparatus  meant  to  enforce  the  will  of  a  group  that  con 
trols  the  government. 

For  a  month  I  was  alone  in  my  barrack.  Then  a  companion  came — 
Narmada  Prasad  Singh—and  his  coming  was  a  relief.  Two  and  a  half 
months  later,  on  the  last  day  of  June  1930,  our  little  enclosure  was 
the  scene  of  unusual  excitement.  Unexpectedly  early  in  the  morning, 
my  father  and  Dr.  Syed  Mahmud  were  brought  there.  They  had  both 
been  arrested  in  Anand  Bhawan,  while  they  were  actually  in  their  beds, 
that  morning. 

XXVII 

THE  NO-TAX  CAMPAIGN  IN  THE 
UNITED  PROVINCES 

MY  FATHER'S  ARREST  was  accompanied  by,  or  immediately  preceded  by, 
the  declaration  of  the  Congress  Working  Committee  as  an  unlawful 
body.  This  led  to  a  new  development  outside — the  Committee  would 
be  arrested  en  bloc  when  it  was  having  a  meeting.  Substitute  members 
were  added  to  it,  under  the  authority  given  to  the  acting  presidents, 
and  in  this  way  several  women  became  acting  members.  Kamala  was 
one  of  them. 

171 


Father  was  in  very  poor  health  when  he  came  to  jail,  and  the  con 
ditions  in  which  he  was  kept  there  were  of  extreme  discomfort.  This 
was  not  intentional  on  the  part  of  the  Government,  for  they  were  pre 
pared  to  do  what  they  could  to  lessen  those  discomforts.  But  they  could 
not  do  much  in  Naini  Prison.  Four  of  us  were  now  crowded  together 
in  the  four  tiny  cells  of  my  barrack.  It  was  suggested  by  the  superin 
tendent  of  the  prison  that  father  might  be  kept  in  some  other  part  of 
the  jail  where  he  might  have  a  little  more  room,  but  we  preferred  to 
be  together,  so  that  some  of  us  could  attend  personally  to  his  comforts. 

The  monsoon  was  just  beginning,  and  it  was  not  particularly  easy 
to  keep  perfectly  dry  even  inside  the  cells,  for  the  rainwater  came 
through  the  roof  occasionally  and  dripped  in  various  places.  At  night 
it  was  always  a  problem  where  to  put  father's  bed  in  the  little  ten-foot 
by  five-foot  veranda  attached  to  our  cell,  in  order  to  avoid  the  rain. 
Sometimes  he  had  fever.  The  jail  authorities  ultimately  decided  to 
build  an  additional  veranda,  a  fine  broad  one,  attached  to  our  cell.  This 
veranda  was  built,  and  it  was  a  great  improvement,  but  father  did  not 
profit  by  it  much,  as  he  was  discharged  soon  after  it  was  ready.  Those 
of  us  who  continued  to  live  in  that  barrack  took  full  advantage  of  it 
later. 

Toward  the  end  of  July  there  was  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  Dr. 
Tej  Bahadur  Sapru  and  Mr.  M.  R.  Jayakar  endeavoring  to  bring  about 
peace  between  the  Congress  and  the  Government.  We  heard  that 
there  had  been  some  correspondence  between  Lord  Irwin  and  Messrs. 
Sapru  and  Jayakar,  and  that  the  "peacemakers"  had  visited  Gandhiji. 
Later,  we  were  told,  a  brief  statement  that  father  had  agreed  to  in 
Bombay  a  few  days  before  his  arrest  had  encouraged  them.  Mr.  Slo- 
combe  (a  correspondent  of  the  London  Daily  Herald  then  in  India) 
had  drafted  this  statement  after  a  conversation  with  my  father,  and 
father  had  approved  it.  It  envisaged  the  possibility  of  suspending  civil 
disobedience  if  the  Government  agreed  to  a  number  of  conditions.  I 
remember  father  mentioning  it  to  me  in  Naini,  after  his  arrest,  and 
adding  that  he  was  rather  sorry  that  he  had  given  such  a  vague  state 
ment  in  a  hurry,  as  it  was  possible  that  it  might  be  misunderstood.  It 
was  indeed  misunderstood,  as  even  the  most  exact  and  explicit  state 
ments  are  likely  to  be,  by  people  whose  way  of  thinking  is  entirely 
different. 

Dr.  Tej  Bahadur  Sapru  and  Mr.  Jayakar  suddenly  descended  on  us 
in  Naini  Prison,  on  July  27,  with  a  note  from  Gandhiji.  We  had  long 
interviews  with  them,  which  were  very  exhausting  for  father  as  he 

172 


was  actually  feverish  then.  We  talked  and  argued  in  a  circle,  hardly 
understanding  one  another's  language  or  thought,  so  great  was  the  dif 
ference  in  political  outlook.  It  was  obvious  to  us  that  there  was  not 
the  faintest  chance  of  any  peace.  We  refused  to  make  any  suggestions 
without  first  consulting  our  colleagues  of  the  Working  Committee, 
especially  Gandhiji.  And  we  wrote  something  to  this  effect  to  Gandhiji. 

Eleven  days  later,  on  August  8,  Dr.  Sapru  came  to  see  us  again  with 
the  Viceroy's  reply.  The  Viceroy  had  no  objection  to  our  going  to 
Yeravda,  the  prison  in  Poona  where  Gandhiji  was  kept;  but  he  and 
his  Council  could  not  allow  us  to  meet  members  of  the  Working  Com 
mittee  who  were  outside  and  were  still  carrying  on  an  active  campaign 
against  the  Government. 

Two  days  later,  on  August  10,  the  three  of  us— father,  Mahmud, 
and  I — were  sent  by  a  special  train  from  Naini  to  Poona.  Our  train 
did  not  stop  at  the  big  stations;  we  rushed  past  them,  stopping  at  the 
small  wayside  ones.  Still,  news  of  us  traveled  ahead,  and  large  crowds 
gathered  both  at  the  stations  where  we  stopped  and  at  those  where 
we  did  not  stop.  We  reached  Kirkee,  near  Poona,  late  at  night  on 
the  nth. 

Our  conferences  in  the  prison  office  with  Messrs.  Sapru  and  Jayakar 
lasted  three  days,  the  i3th,  i4th,  and  i5th  of  August,  and  we  exchanged 
letters  giving  expression  to  our  views  and  indicating  the  minimum  con 
ditions  necessary  to  enable  us  to  withdraw  civil  disobedience  and  offer 
co-operation  to  the  Government.  These  letters  were  subsequently  pub 
lished  in  the  newspapers. 

The  strain  of  these  conferences  had  told  on  father,  and  on  the  i6th 
he  suddenly  got  high  fever.  This  delayed  our  return,  and  we  started 
back  on  the  night  of  the  ipth,  again  by  special  train,  for  Naini.  Every 
effort  was  made  by  the  Bombay  Government  to  provide  a  comfortable 
journey  for  father,  and  even  in  Yeravda,  during  our  brief  stay  there, 
his  comforts  were  studied.  I  remember  an  amusing  incident  on  the 
night  of  our  arrival  at  Yeravda.  Colonel  Martin,  the  superintendent, 
asked  father  what  kind  of  food  he  would  like.  Father  told  him  that  he 
took  very  simple  and  light  food,  and  then  he  enumerated  his  various 
requirements  from  early  morning  tea  in  bed  to  dinner  at  night.  (In 
Naini  we  used  to  get  food  for  him  daily  from  home.)  The  list  father 
gave  in  all  innocence  and  simplicity  consisted  certainly  of  light  foods, 
but  it  was  impressive.  Very  probably  at  the  Ritz  or  the  Savoy  it  would 
have  been  considered  simple  and  ordinary  food,  as  father  himself  was 
convinced  that  it  was.  But  in  Yeravda  Prison  it  seemed  strange  and  far 

173 


away  and  most  inappropriate.  Mahmud  and  I  were  highly  amused  to 
watch  the  expression  on  Colonel  Martin's  face  as  he  listened  to  father's 
numerous  and  expensive  requirements  in  the  way  of  food.  For  a  long 
time  he  had  had  in  his  keeping  the  greatest  and  most  famous  of  India's 
leaders,  and  all  that  he  had  required  in  the  way  of  food  was  goat's 
milk,  dates,  and  perhaps  oranges  occasionally.  The  new  type  of  leader 
that  had  come  to  him  was  very  different. 

During  our  journey  back  from  Poona  to  Naini  we  again  rushed  by 
the  big  stations  and  stopped  in  out-of-the-way  places.  But  the  crowds 
were  larger  still,  filling  the  platforms  and  sometimes  even  swarming 
over  the  railway  lines,  especially  at  Harda,  Itarsi,  and  Sohagpur.  Acci 
dents  were  narrowly  averted. 

Father's  condition  was  rapidly  deteriorating.  Many  doctors  came  to 
examine  him,  his  own  doctors  as  well  as  doctors  sent  on  behalf  of  the 
Provincial  Government.  It  was  obvious  that  jail  was  the  worst  place 
for  him,  and  there  could  be  no  proper  treatment  there.  And  yet,  when 
a  suggestion  was  made  by  some  friend  in  the  press  that  he  should  be 
released  because  of  his  illness,  he  was  irritated,  as  he  thought  that 
people  might  think  that  the  suggestion  came  from  him.  He  even  went 
to  the  length  of  sending  a  telegram  to  Lord  Irwin,  saying  that  he  did 
not  want  to  be  released  as  a  special  favor.  But  his  condition  was  grow 
ing  worse  from  day  to  day;  he  was  losing  weight  rapidly,  and  physi 
cally  he  was  a  shadow  of  himself.  On  the  8th  of  September  he  was 
discharged  after  exactly  ten  weeks  of  prison. 

Our  barrack  became  a  dull  and  lifeless  place  after  his  departure. 
There  was  so  much  to  be  done  when  he  was  with  us,  little  services  to 
add  to  his  comfort,  and  all  of  us — Mahmud,  Narmada  Prasad,  and  I — 
filled  our  days  with  this  joyful  service.  I  had  given  up  newar  weaving, 
I  spun  very  little,  and  I  did  not  have  much  time  for  books  either.  And 
now  that  he  was  gone,  we  reverted  rather  heavily  and  joylessly  to  the 
old  routine.  Even  the  daily  newspaper  stopped  after  father's  release. 
Four  or  five  days  later  my  brother-in-law,  Ranjit  S.  Pandit,  was 
arrested,  and  he  joined  us  in  our  barrack. 

A  month  later,  on  October  n,  I  was  discharged  on  the  expiry  of  six 
months'  sentence.  I  knew  I  would  have  little  freedom,  for  the  struggle 
was  going  on  and  becoming  more  intense.  The  attempts  of  the  "peace 
makers" — Messrs.  Sapru  and  Jayakar — had  failed.  On  the  very  day  I 
was  discharged  one  or  two  more  ordinances  were  announced.  I  was 
glad  to  be  out  and  eager  to  do  something  effective  during  my  short 
spell  of  freedom. 

174 


Kamala  was  in  Allahabad  then,  busy  with  her  Congress  work;  father 
was  under  treatment  at  Mussoorie,  and  my  mother  and  sisters  were 
with  him.  I  spent  a  busy  day  and  a  half  in  Allahabad  before  going  up 
to  Mussoorie  myself  with  Kamala.  The  great  question  before  us  then 
was  whether  a  no-tax  campaign  in  the  rural  areas  should  be  started  or 
not.  The  time  for  rent  collection  and  payment  of  revenue  was  close  at 
hand,  and,  in  any  event,  collections  were  going  to  be  difficult  because 
of  the  tremendous  fall  in  the  prices  of  agricultural  produce.  The  world 
slump  was  now  very  evident  in  India. 

It  seemed  an  ideal  opportunity  for  a  no-tax  campaign,  both  as  a  part 
of  the  general  civil  disobedience  movement  and,  independently,  on  its 
own  merits.  It  was  manifestly  impossible  both  for  landlords  and  tenants 
to  pay  up  the  full  demand  out  of  that  year's  produce.  They  had  to  fall 
back  on  old  reserves,  if  they  had  any,  or  borrow.  The  zamindars  usu 
ally  had  something  to  fall  back  upon,  or  could  borrow  more  easily.  The 
average  tenant,  always  on  the  verge  of  destitution  and  starvation,  had 
nothing  to  fall  back  upon.  In  any  democratic  country,  or  where  the 
agriculturists  were  properly  organized  and  had  influence,  it  would  have 
been  quite  impossible,  under  those  circumstances,  to  make  them  pay 
much.  In  India  their  influence  was  negligible,  except  in  so  far  as  the 
Congress,  in  some  parts  of  the  country,  stood  for  them;  and  except,  of 
course,  for  the  ever-present  fear  of  peasant  risings  when  the  situation 
became  intolerable  for  them.  But  they  had  become  accustomed  for 
generations  past  to  stand  almost  anything  without  much  murmuring. 

When  I  came  out  of  jail  in  October,  both  political  and  economic 
conditions  seemed  to  me  to  be  crying  out  for  a  no-tax  campaign  in 
rural  areas.  The  economic  difficulties  of  the  agriculturists  were  obvious 
enough.  Politically,  our  civil  disobedience  activities,  though  still  flour 
ishing  everywhere,  were  getting  a  bit  stale.  People  went  on  going  to  jail 
in  small  numbers,  and  sometimes  in  large  groups,  but  the  sting  had 
gone  from  the  atmosphere.  The  cities  and  the  middle  classes  were  a  bit 
tired  of  the  hartals  and  processions.  Obviously  something  was  needed 
to  liven  things  up,  a  fresh  infusion  of  blood  was  necessary.  Where 
could  this  come  from  except  from  the  peasantry? — and  the  reserve 
stocks  there  were  enormous.  It  would  again  become  a  mass  movement 
touching  the  vital  interests  of  the  masses  and,  what  was  to  me  very 
important,  would  raise  social  issues. 

We  discussed  these  matters,  my  colleagues  and  I,  during  the  brief 
day  and  a  half  I  was  at  Allahabad.  At  short  notice  we  convened  a 
meeting  there  of  the  executive  of  our  Provincial  Congress  Committee, 

175 


and,  after  long  debate,  we  decided  to  sanction  a  no-tax  campaign,  mak 
ing  it  permissive  for  any  district  to  take  it  up.  We  did  not  declare  it 
ourselves  in  any  part  of  the  province,  and  the  Executive  Council  made 
it  apply  to  zamindars  as  well  as  tenants,  to  avoid  the  class  issue  if  pos 
sible.  We  knew,  of  course,  that  the  main  response  would  come  from  the 
peasantry. 

Having  got  this  permission  to  go  ahead,  our  district  of  Allahabad 
wanted  to  take  the  first  step.  We  decided  to  convene  a  representative 
fysan  or  peasants'  conference  of  the  district  a  week  later,  to  give  the 
new  campaign  a  push.  I  felt  that  I  had  done  a  good  first  day's  work 
after  release  from  jail.  I  added  to  it  a  big  mass  meeting  in  Allahabad 
city,  where  I  spoke  at  length.  It  was  for  this  speech  that  I  was  subse 
quently  convicted  again. 

And  then,  on  October  13,  Kamala  and  I  went  off  to  Mussoorie  to 
spend  three  days  with  father.  He  was  looking  just  a  little  better,  and  I 
was  happy  to  think  that  he  had  turned  the  corner  and  was  getting  well. 
I  remember  those  quiet  and  delightful  three  days  well;  it  was  good  to 
be  back  in  the  family.  Indira,  my  daughter,  was  there;  and  my  three 
little  nieces,  my  sister's  daughters.  I  would  play  with  the  children,  and 
sometimes  we  would  march  bravely  round  the  house  in  a  stately  pro 
cession,  led,  flag  in  hand,  by  the  youngest,  aged  three  or  four,  singing 
Jhanda  uncha  rahe  hamara,  our  flag  song.  And  those  three  days  were 
the  last  I  was  to  have  with  father  before  his  fatal  illness  came  to  snatch 
him  away  from  me. 

Expecting  my  rearrest  soon,  and  desiring  perhaps  to  see  a  little  more 
of  me,  father  suddenly  decided  to  return  to  Allahabad  also.  Kamala 
and  I  were  going  down  from  Mussoorie  on  October  17  to  be  in  time 
for  the  peasant  conference  at  Allahabad  on  the  i9th.  Father  arranged 
to  start  with  the  others  on  the  i8th,  the  day  after  us. 

We  had  a  somewhat  exciting  journey  back,  Kamala  and  I.  At  Dehra 
Dun  an  order  under  Section  144,  Criminal  Procedure  Code  was  served 
on  me  almost  as  I  was  leaving.  At  Lucknow  we  got  off  for  a  few  hours, 
and  I  learned  that  another  order  under  Section  144  awaited  me  there, 
but  it  was  not  actually  served  on  me,  as  the  police  officer  could  not 
reach  me  owing  to  the  large  crowds.  I  was  presented  with  an  address 
by  the  municipality,  and  then  we  left  by  car  for  Allahabad,  stopping  at 
various  places  en  route  to  address  some  peasant  gatherings.  We  reached 
Allahabad  on  the  night  of  the  i8th. 

The  morning  of  the  igth  brought  yet  another  order  under  Section 
144  for  me!  The  Government  was  evidently  hot  on  my  trail,  and  my 


hours  were  numbered.  I  was  anxious  to  attend  the  %isan  conference 
before  my  rearrest.  We  called  this  conference  a  private  one  of  delegates 
only,  and  so  it  was,  and  did  not  allow  outsiders  to  come  in.  It  was  very 
representative  of  Allahabad  district,  and,  as  far  as  I  remember,  about 
sixteen  hundred  delegates  were  present.  The  conference  decided  very 
enthusiastically  to  start  the  no-tax  campaign  in  the  district.  There  was 
some  hesitation  among  our  principal  workers,  some  doubt  about  the 
success  of  such  a  venture,  for  the  influence  and  the  power  of  the  big 
zamindars  to  terrorize,  backed  as  this  was  by  the  Government,  was 
very  great,  and  they  wondered  if  the  peasantry  would  be  able  to  with 
stand  this.  But  there  was  no  hesitation  or  doubt  in  the  minds  of  the 
sixteen  hundred  and  odd  peasants  of  all  degrees  who  were  present — or 
at  any  rate  it  was  not  apparent.  I  was  one  of  the  speakers  at  the  con 
ference.  I  do  not  know  if  thereby  I  committed  a  breach  of  the  Section 
144  order  which  had  forbidden  me  from  speaking  in  public. 

I  then  went  to  the  station  to  receive  my  father  and  the  rest  of  the 
family.  The  train  was  late,  and,  immediately  after  their  arrival,  I  left 
them  to  attend  a  public  meeting,  a  joint  affair  of  the  peasants,  who 
had  come  from  the  surrounding  villages,  and  the  townspeople.  Kamala 
and  I  were  returning  from  this  meeting,  thoroughly  tired  out,  after 
8  P.M.  I  was  looking  forward  to  a  talk  with  father,  and  I  knew  that  he 
was  waiting  for  me,  for  we  had  hardly  spoken  to  each  other  since  his 
return.  On  our  way  back  our  car  was  stopped  almost  in  sight  of  our 
house,  and  I  was  arrested  and  carried  off  across  the  River  Jumna  to  my 
old  quarters  in  Naini.  Kamala  went  on,  alone,  to  Anand  Bhawan  to 
inform  the  waiting  family  of  this  new  development;  and,  at  the  stroke 
of  nine,  I  re-entered  the  great  gate  of  Naini  Prison. 

After  eight  days'  absence  I  was  back  again  in  Naini,  and  I  rejoined 
Syed  Mahmud,  Narmada  Prasad,  and  Ran  jit  Pandit  in  the  same  old 
barrack.  Some  days  afterward  I  was  tried  in  prison  on  a  number  of 
charges,  all  based  on  various  parts  of  that  one  speech  I  had  delivered 
at  Allahabad,  the  day  after  my  discharge.  As  usual  with  us,  I  did  not 
defend  myself,  but  made  a  brief  statement  in  court.  I  was  sentenced 
for  sedition  under  Section  I24A  to  eighteen  months'  rigorous  imprison 
ment  and  a  fine  of  five  hundred  rupees;  under  the  Salt  Act  of  1882  to 
six  months  and  a  fine  of  one  hundred  rupees;  and  under  Ordinance 
VI  of  1930  (I  forget  what  this  ordinance  was  about)  also  to  six  months 
and  a  fine  of  one  hundred  rupees.  As  the  last  two  were  concurrent,  the 
total  sentence  was  two  years'  rigorous  imprisonment  and,  in  addition, 
five  months  in  default  of  fines.  This  was  my  fifth  term. 

177 


My  rearrest  and  conviction  had  some  effect  on  the  tempo  of  the  civil 
disobedience  movement  for  a  while;  it  put  on  a  little  spurt  and  showed 
greater  energy.  This  was  largely  due  to  father.  When  news  was  brought 
to  him  by  Kamala  of  my  arrest,  he  had  a  slightly  unpleasant  shock. 
Almost  immediately  he  pulled  himself  together  and  banged  a  table  in 
front  of  him,  saying  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  be  an  invalid  no 
longer.  He  was  going  to  be  well  and  to  do  a  man's  work,  and  not  to 
submit  weakly  to  illness.  It  was  a  brave  resolve,  but  unhappily  no 
strength  of  will  could  overcome  and  crush  that  deep-seated  disease  that 
was  eating  into  him.  Yet  for  a  few  days  it  worked  a  marked  change, 
to  the  surprise  of  those  who  saw  him.  For  some  months  past,  ever  since 
he  had  been  at  Yeravda,  he  had  been  bringing  up  blood  in  his  sputum. 
This  stopped  quite  suddenly  after  this  resolve  of  his,  and  for  some  days 
it  did  not  reappear.  He  was  pleased  about  it,  and  he  came  to  see  me  in 
prison  and  mentioned  this  fact  to  me  in  some  triumph.  It  was  unfor 
tunately  a  brief  respite,  for  the  blood  came  later  in  greater  quantities, 
and  the  disease  reasserted  itself.  During  this  interval  he  worked  with 
his  old  energy  and  gave  a  push  to  the  civil  disobedience  movement  all 
over  India.  He  conferred  with  many  people  from  various  places  and 
issued  detailed  instructions.  He  fixed  one  day  (it  was  my  birthday  in 
November!)  for  an  all-India  celebration  at  which  the  offending  pas 
sages  from  my  speech,  for  which  I  had  been  convicted,  were  read  out 
at  public  meetings.  On  that  day  there  were  numerous  lathee  charges 
and  forcible  dispersals  of  processions  and  meetings,  and  it  was  estimated 
that,  on  that  day  alone,  about  five  thousand  arrests  were  made  all  over 
the  country.  It  was  a  unique  birthday  celebration. 

Ill  as  he  was,  this  assumption  of  responsibility  and  pouring  out  of 
energy  was  very  bad  for  father,  and  I  begged  of  him  to  take  absolute 
rest.  I  realized  that  such  rest  might  not  be  possible  for  him  in  India, 
for  his  mind  would  always  be  occupied  with  the  ups  and  downs  of  our 
struggle,  and,  inevitably,  people  would  go  to  him  for  advice.  So  I  sug 
gested  to  him  to  go  for  a  short  sea  voyage  toward  Rangoon,  Singapore, 
and  the  Dutch  Indies,  and  he  rather  liked  the  idea.  It  was  arranged 
that  a  doctor  friend  might  accompany  him  on  the  voyage.  With  this 
object  in  view  he  went  to  Calcutta,  but  his  condition  grew  slowly 
worse,  and  he  was  unable  to  go  far.  In  a  Calcutta  suburb  he  remained 
for  seven  weeks,  and  the  whole  family  joined  him  there,  except 
Kamala,  who  remained  in  Allahabad  for  most  of  the  time,  doing 
Congress  work. 

My  rearrest  had  probably  been  hastened  because  of  my  activities  in 

178 


connection  with  the  no-tax  campaign.  As  a  matter  of  fact  few  things 
could  have  been  better  for  that  campaign  than  my  arrest  on  that  par 
ticular  day,  immediately  after  the  tysan  conference,  while  the  peasant 
delegates  were  still  in  Allahabad.  Their  enthusiasm  grew  because  of  it, 
and  they  carried  the  decisions  of  the  conference  to  almost  every  village 
in  the  district.  Within  a  couple  of  days  the  whole  district  knew  that  the 
no-tax  campaign  had  been  inaugurated,  and  everywhere  there  was  a 
joyful  response  to  it. 

Our  chief  difficulty  in  those  days  was  one  of  communication,  of  get 
ting  people  to  know  what  we  were  doing  or  what  we  wanted  them  to 
do.  Newspapers  would  not  publish  our  news  for  fear  of  being  penal 
ized  and  suppressed  by  Government;  printing  presses  would  not  print 
our  leaflets  and  notices;  letters  and  telegrams  were  censored  and  often 
stopped.  The  only  reliable  method  of  communication  open  to  us  was 
to  send  couriers  with  dispatches,  and  even  so  our  messengers  were 
sometimes  arrested.  The  method  was  an  expensive  one  and  required  a 
great  deal  of  organization.  It  was  organized  with  some  success,  and  the 
provincial  centers  were  in  constant  touch  with  headquarters  as  well  as 
with  their  principal  district  centers.  It  was  not  difficult  to  spread  any 
information  in  the  cities.  Many  of  these  issued  unauthorized  news 
sheets,  usually  cyclostyled,  daily  or  weekly,  and  there  was  always  a 
great  demand  for  them.  For  our  public  notifications,  one  of  the  city 
methods  was  by  beat  of  drum;  this  resulted  usually  in  the  arrest  of  the 
drummer.  This  did  not  matter,  as  arrests  were  sought,  not  avoided. 
All  these  methods  suited  the  cities  and  were  not  easily  applicable  to  the 
rural  areas.  Some  kind  of  touch  was  kept  up  with  principal  village 
centers  by  means  of  messengers  and  cyclostyled  notices,  but  this  was 
not  satisfactory,  and  it  took  time  for  our  instructions  to  percolate  to 
distant  villages. 

The  fysan  conference  at  Allahabad  got  over  this  difficulty.  Delegates 
had  come  to  it  from  practically  every  important  village  in  the  district, 
and,  when  they  dispersed,  they  carried  the  news  of  the  fresh  decisions 
affecting  the  peasantry,  and  of  my  arrest  in  connection  with  them,  to 
every  part  of  the  district.  They  became,  sixteen  hundred  of  them, 
effective  and  enthusiastic  propagandists  for  the  no-tax  campaign.  The 
initial  success  of  the  movement  thus  became  assured,  and  there  was  no 
doubt  that  the  peasantry  as  a  whole  in  that  area  would  not  pay  their 
rent  to  begin  with,  and  not  at  all  unless  they  were  frightened  into 
doing  so.  No  one,  of  course,  could  say  what  their  powers  of  endurance 
would  be  in  face  of  official  or  zamindari  violence  and  terrorism.  Our 

179 


appeal  had  been  addressed  both  to  zamindars  and  tenants  not  to  pay; 
in  theory  it  was  not  a  class  appeal.  In  practice  most  o£  the  zamindars 
did  pay  their  revenue,  even  some  who  sympathized  with  the  national 
struggle.  The  pressure  on  them  was  great,  and  they  had  more  to  lose. 
The  tenantry,  however,  stood  firm  and  did  not  pay,  and  our  campaign 
thus  became  practically  a  no-rent  campaign. 

Government  repression  grew.  Local  Congress  committees,  youth 
leagues,  etc.,  which  had  rather  surprisingly  carried  on  so  far,  were 
declared  illegal  and  suppressed.  The  treatment  of  political  prisoners  in 
jails  became  worse.  Government  was  especially  irritated  when  people 
returned  to  jail  for  a  second  sentence  soon  after  their  discharge.  This 
failure  to  bend  in  spite  of  punishment  hurt  the  morale  of  the  rulers. 
In  November  or  early  December  1930  there  were  some  cases  of  flog 
ging  of  political  prisoners  in  United  Provinces  prisons,  apparently  for 
offenses  against  jail  discipline.  News  of  this  reached  us  in  Naini  Prison 
and  upset  us — since  then  we  have  got  used  to  this,  as  well  as  many 
worse  happenings  in  India — for  flogging  seemed  to  me  to  be  an  unde 
sirable  infliction,  even  on  hardened  criminals  of  the  worst  type.  For 
young,  sensitive  boys  and  for  technical  offenses  of  discipline,  it  was 
barbarous.  We  four  in  our  barrack  wrote  to  the  Government  about  it, 
and,  not  receiving  any  reply  for  about  two  weeks,  we  decided  to  take 
some  definite  step  to  mark  our  protest  at  the  floggings  and  our  sym 
pathy  with  the  victims  of  this  barbarity.  We  undertook  a  complete  fast 
for  three  days — seventy-two  hours.  This  was  not  much  as  fasts  go,  but 
none  of  us  was  accustomed  to  fasting  and  did  not  know  how  we  would 
stand  it.  My  previous  fasts  had  seldom  exceeded  twenty-four  hours. 

We  went  through  that  fast  without  any  great  difficulty,  and  I  was 
glad  to  find  out  that  it  was  not  such  an  ordeal  as  I  feared.  Very  fool 
ishly  I  carried  on  my  strenuous  exercises — running,  jerks,  etc. — right 
through  that  fast.  I  do  not  think  that  did  me  much  good,  especially  as 
I  had  been  feeling  a  little  unwell  previously.  Each  one  of  us  lost  seven 
to  eight  pounds  in  weight  during  those  three  days.  This  was  in  addi 
tion  to  the  fifteen  to  twenty-six  pounds  that  each  had  lost  in  the  pre 
vious  months  in  Naini. 

Except  for  these  occasional  alarms,  we  lived  a  quiet  life  in  prison. 
The  weather  was  agreeable,  for  winter  in  Allahabad  is  very  pleasant. 
Ranjit  Pandit  was  an  acquisition  to  our  barrack,  for  he  knew  much 
about  gardening,  and  soon  that  dismal  enclosure  of  ours  was  full  of 
flowers  and  gay  with  color.  He  even  arranged  in  that  narrow,  restricted 
space  a  miniature  golf  course! 

180 


One  of  the  welcome  excitements  of  our  prison  existence  at  Naini  was 
the  passage  of  airplanes  over  our  heads.  Allahabad  is  one  of  the  ports 
of  call  for  all  the  great  air  lines  between  East  and  West,  and  the  giant 
planes  going  to  Australia,  Java,  and  French  Indo-China  would  pass 
almost  directly  above  our  heads  at  Naini.  Most  stately  of  all  were  the 
Dutch  liners  flying  to  and  from  Batavia.  Sometimes,  if  we  were  lucky, 
we  saw  a  plane  in  the  early  winter  morning,  when  it  was  still  dark  and 
the  stars  were  visible.  The  great  liner  was  brightly  lit  up,  and  at  both 
ends  it  had  red  lights.  It  was  a  beautiful  sight,  as  it  sailed  by,  against 
the  dark  background  of  the  early-morning  sky. 

The  New  Year's  Day,  the  first  of  January  1931,  brought  us  the  news 
of  Kamala's  arrest.  I  was  pleased,  for  she  had  so  longed  to  follow  many 
of  her  comrades  to  prison.  Ordinarily,  if  they  had  been  men,  both  she 
and  my  sister  and  many  other  women  would  have  been  arrested  long 
ago.  But  at  that  time  the  Government  avoided,  as  far  as  possible,  arrest 
ing  women,  and  so  they  had  escaped  for  so  long.  And  now  she  had  her 
heart's  desire!  How  glad  she  must  be,  I  thought.  But  I  was  apprehen 
sive,  for  she  was  always  in  weak  health,  and  I  feared  that  prison  con 
ditions  might  cause  her  much  suffering. 

As  she  was  arrested,  a  pressman  who  was  present  asked  her  for  a 
message,  and,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  and  almost  unconsciously, 
she  gave  a  little  message  that  was  characteristic  of  her:  "I  am  happy 
beyond  measure  and  proud  to  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  my  husband. 
I  hope  the  people  will  keep  the  flag  flying."  Probably  she  would  not 
have  said  just  that  if  she  had  thought  over  the  matter,  for  she  con 
sidered  herself  a  champion  of  woman's  right  against  the  tyranny  of 
man! 

My  father  was  in  Calcutta  and  far  from  well,  but  news  of  Kamala's 
arrest  and  conviction  shook  him  up,  and  he  decided  to  return  to  Alla 
habad.  He  sent  on  my  sister  Krishna  immediately  to  Allahabad  and 
followed  himself,  with  the  rest  of  the  family,  a  few  days  later.  On  the 
i2th  of  January  he  came  to  see  me  in  Naini.  I  saw  him  after  nearly 
two  months,  and  I  had  a  shock  which  I  could  conceal  with  difficulty. 
He  seemed  to  be  unaware  of  the  dismay  that  his  appearance  had  pro 
duced  in  me,  and  told  me  that  he  was  much  better  than  he  had  lately 
been  in  Calcutta.  His  face  was  swollen,  and  he  seemed  to  think  that 
this  was  due  to  some  temporary  cause. 

That  face  of  his  haunted  me.  It  was  so  utterly  unlike  him.  For  the 
first  time  a  fear  began  to  creep  in  my  mind  that  there  was  real  danger 
for  him  ahead.  I  had  always  associated  him  with  strength  and  health, 

181 


and  I  could  not  think  of  death  in  connection  with  him.  He  had  always 
laughed  at  the  idea  of  death,  made  fun  of  it,  and  told  us  that  he  pro 
posed  to  live  for  a  further  long  term  of  years.  Latterly  I  had  noticed 
that  whenever  an  old  friend  of  his  youth  died,  he  had  a  sense  of  loneli 
ness,  of  being  left  by  himself  in  strange  company,  and  even  a  hint  of 
an  approaching  end.  But  generally  this  mood  passed,  and  his  overflow 
ing  vitality  asserted  itself;  we  of  his  family  had  grown  so  used  to  his 
rich  personality  and  the  all-embracing  warmth  of  his  affection  that  it 
was  difficult  for  us  to  think  of  the  world  without  him. 

I  was  troubled  by  that  look  of  his,  and  my  mind  was  full  of  fore 
bodings.  Yet  I  did  not  think  that  any  danger  to  him  lay  in  the  near 
future.  I  was  myself,  for  some  unknown  reason,  keeping  poor  health 
just  then. 

Those  were  the  last  days  of  the  first  Round  Table  Conference,  and 
we  were  a  little  amused — and  I  am  afraid  our  amusement  had  a  touch 
of  disdain  in  it.  In  the  hour  of  our  country's  sorest  trial,  and  when  our 
men  and  women  had  behaved  so  wonderfully,  there  were  some  of  our 
countrymen  who  were  prepared  to  ignore  our  struggle  and  give  their 
moral  support  to  the  other  side.  It  became  clearer  to  us  than  it  had 
been  before  how,  under  the  deceptive  cover  of  nationalism,  conflicting 
economic  interests  were  at  work,  and  how  those  with  vested  interests 
were  trying  to  preserve  them  for  the  future  in  the  name  of  this  very 
nationalism.  The  Round  Table  Conference  was  an  obvious  collection 
of  these  vested  interests. 

We  did  not  really  mind  or  care  what  the  Round  Table  Conference 
did.  It  was  far  away,  unreal  and  shadowy,  and  the  struggle  lay  here  in 
our  towns  and  villages.  We  had  no  illusions  about  the  speedy  termina 
tion  of  our  struggle  or  about  the  dangers  ahead,  and  yet  the  events  of 
1930  had  given  us  a  certain  confidence  in  our  national  strength  and 
stamina,  and  with  that  confidence  we  faced  the  future. 

What  filled  our  minds  most  was  the  approach  of  January  26,  the  first 
anniversary  of  Independence  Day,  and  we  wondered  how  this  would 
be  celebrated.  It  was  observed,  as  we  learned  subsequently,  all  over  the 
country  by  the  holding  of  mass  meetings  which  confirmed  the  resolu 
tion  of  independence,  and  passed  an  identical  resolution  called  the 
"Resolution  of  Remembrance."  The  organization  of  this  celebration 
was  a  remarkable  feat,  for  newspapers  and  printing  presses  were  not 
available,  nor  could  the  post  or  telegraph  be  utilized.  And  yet  an 
identical  resolution,  in  the  particular  language  of  the  province  con 
cerned,  was  passed  at  large  gatherings  held  at  more  or  less  the  same 

182 


times  at  innumerable  places,  urban  and  rural,  throughout  the  country. 
Most  of  these  gatherings  were  held  in  defiance  of  the  law  and  were 
forcibly  dispersed  by  the  police. 

January  26  found  us  in  Naini  Prison  musing  of  the  year  that  was 
past  and  of  the  year  that  was  to  come.  In  the  forenoon  I  was  told  sud 
denly  that  my  father's  condition  was  serious  and  that  I  must  go  home 
immediately.  On  inquiry,  I  was  informed  that  I  was  being  discharged. 
Ranjit  also  accompanied  me. 

That  evening,  many  other  persons  were  discharged  from  various 
prisons  throughout  India.  These  were  the  original  and  substitute  mem 
bers  of  the  Congress  Working  Committee.  The  Government  was  giv 
ing  us  a  chance  to  meet  and  consider  the  situation.  So,  in  any  event,  I 
would  have  been  discharged  that  evening.  Father's  condition  hastened 
my  release  by  a  few  hours.  Kamala  also  was  discharged  that  day  from 
her  Lucknow  prison  after  a  brief  jail  life  of  26  days.  She  too  was  a 
substitute  member  of  the  Working  Committee. 


XXVIII 

DEATH  OF  MY  FATHER 

I  SAW  FATHER  after  two  weeks,  for  he  had  visited  me  at  Naini  on  Jan 
uary  12,  when  his  appearance  had  given  me  a  shock.  He  had  now 
changed  for  the  worse,  and  his  face  was  even  more  swollen.  He  had 
some  little  difficulty  in  speaking,  and  his  mind  was  not  always  quite 
clear.  But  his  old  will  remained,  and  this  held  on  and  kept  the  body 
and  mind  functioning. 

He  was  pleased  to  see  Ranjit  and  me.  A  day  or  two  later  Ranjit 
(who  did  not  come  in  the  category  of  Working  Committee  members) 
was  taken  back  to  Naini  Prison.  This  upset  father,  and  he  was  con 
tinually  asking  for  him  and  complaining  that  when  so  many  people 
were  coming  to  see  him  from  distant  parts  of  India,  his  own  son-in-law 
was  kept  away.  The  doctors  were  worried  by  this  insistence,  and  it  was 
obvious  that  it  was  doing  father  no  good.  After  three  or  four  days,  I 
think  at  the  doctors'  suggestion,  the  United  Provinces  Government  re 
leased  Ranjit. 

On  January  26,  the  same  day  that  I  was  discharged,  Gandhiji  was 
also  discharged  from  Yeravda  Prison.  I  was  anxious  to  have  him  in 

183 


Allahabad,  and,  when  I  mentioned  his  release  to  father,  I  found  that 
he  was  eager  to  see  him.  The  very  next  day  Gandhi) i  started  from 
Bombay  after  a  stupendous  mass  meeting  of  welcome  there,  such  as 
even  Bombay  had  not  seen  before.  He  arrived  at  Allahabad  late  at 
night,  but  father  was  lying  awake,  waiting  for  him,  and  his  presence 
and  the  few  words  he  uttered  had  a  markedly  soothing  effect  on  father. 
To  my  mother  also  his  coming  brought  solace  and  relief. 

The  various  Working  Committee  members,  original  and  substitute, 
who  had  been  released  were  meanwhile  at  a  loose  end  and  were  wait 
ing  for  directions  about  a  meeting.  Many  of  them,  anxious  about  father, 
wanted  to  come  to  Allahabad  immediately.  It  was  decided  therefore  to 
summon  them  all  forthwith  to  a  meeting  at  Allahabad.  Two  days  later 
thirty  or  forty  of  them  arrived,  and  their  meetings  took  place  in  Swaraj 
Bhawan  next  to  our  house.  I  went  to  these  meetings  from  time  to  time, 
but  I  was  much  too  distraught  to  take  any  effective  part  in  them,  and 
I  have  at  present  no  recollection  whatever  of  what  their  decisions  were. 
I  suppose  they  were  in  favor  of  a  continuance  of  the  civil  disobedience 
movement. 

All  these  old  friends  and  colleagues  who  had  come,  many  of  them 
freshly  out  of  prison  and  expecting  to  go  back  again  soon,  wanted  to 
visit  father  and  to  have  what  was  likely  to  be  a  last  glimpse  and  a  last 
farewell  of  him.  They  came  to  him  in  twos  and  threes  in  the  mornings 
and  evenings,  and  father  insisted  on  sitting  up  in  an  easy  chair  to  re 
ceive  his  old  comrades.  There  he  sat,  massively  and  rather  expression- 
lessly,  for  the  swelling  on  his  face  prevented  much  play  of  expression. 
But,  as  one  old  friend  came  after  another  and  comrade  succeeded  com 
rade,  there  was  a  glitter  in  his  eye  and  recognition  of  them,  and  his 
head  bowed  a  little,  and  his  hands  joined  in  salutation.  And  though 
he  could  not  speak  much,  sometimes  he  would  say  a  few  words,  and 
even  then  his  old  humor  did  not  leave  him.  There  he  sat  like  an  old 
lion  mortally  wounded  and  with  his  physical  strength  almost  gone,  but 
still  very  leonine  and  kingly.  As  I  watched  him,  I  wondered  what 
thoughts  passed  through  his  head,  or  whether  he  was  past  taking  in 
terest  in  our  activities.  He  was  evidently  often  struggling  with  himself, 
trying  to  keep  a  grip  of  things  which  threatened  to  slip  away  from  his 
grasp.  To  the  end  this  struggle  continued,  and  he  did  not  give  in,  oc 
casionally  speaking  to  us  with  extreme  clarity.  Even  when  a  constric 
tion  in  his  throat  made  it  difficult  for  him  to  make  himself  understood, 
he  took  to  writing  on  slips  of  paper  what  he  wanted  to  say. 

He  took  practically  no  interest  in  the  Working  Committee  meetings 

184 


which  were  taking  place  next  door.  A  fortnight  earlier  they  would  have 
excited  him,  but  now  he  felt  that  he  was  already  far  away  from  such 
happenings.  "I  am  going  soon,  Mahatmaji,"  he  said  to  Gandhiji,  "and 
I  shall  not  be  here  to  see  Swaraj.  But  I  know  that  you  have  won  it 
and  will  soon  have  it." 

Most  of  the  people  who  had  come  from  other  cities  and  provinces 
departed.  Gandhiji  remained,  and  a  few  intimate  friends  and  near  rela 
tives,  and  the  three  eminent  doctors,  old  friends  of  his,  to  whom,  he 
used  to  say,  he  had  handed  over  his  body  for  safekeeping — M.  A. 
Ansari,  Bidhan  Chandra  Roy,  and  Jivraj  Mehta.  On  the  morning  of 
February  4  he  seemed  to  be  a  little  better,  and  it  was  decided  to  take 
advantage  of  this  and  remove  him  to  Lucknow,  where  there  were  fa 
cilities  for  deep  X-ray  treatment  which  Allahabad  did  not  possess.  That 
very  day  we  took  him  by  car,  Gandhiji  and  a  large  party  following  us. 
We  went  slowly,  but  he  was  nevertheless  exhausted.  The  next  day  he 
seemed  to  be  getting  over  the  fatigue,  and  yet  there  were  some  dis 
quieting  symptoms.  Early  next  morning,  February  6,  I  was  watching 
by  his  bedside.  He  had  had  a  troublesome  and  restless  night;  suddenly 
I  noticed  that  his  face  grew  calm  and  the  sense  of  struggle  vanished 
from  it.  I  thought  that  he  had  fallen  asleep,  and  I  was  glad  of  it.  But 
my  mother's  perceptions  were  keener,  and  she  uttered  a  cry.  I  turned 
to  her  and  begged  her  not  to  disturb  him  as  he  had  fallen  asleep.  But 
that  sleep  was  his  last  long  sleep,  and  from  it  there  was  no  awakening. 

We  brought  his  body  that  very  day  by  car  to  Allahabad.  I  sat  in  that 
car  and  Ran  jit  drove  it,  and  there  was  Hari,  father's  favorite  personal 
servant.  Behind  us  came  another  car  containing  my  mother  and  Gan 
dhiji,  and  then  other  cars.  I  was  dazed  all  that  day,  hardly  realizing 
what  had  happened,  and  a  succession  of  events  and  large  crowds  kept 
me  from  thinking.  Great  crowds  in  Lucknow,  gathered  together  at 
brief  notice — the  swift  dash  from  Lucknow  to  Allahabad  sitting  by  the 
body,  wrapped  in  our  national  flag,  and  with  a  big  flag  flying  above — 
the  arrival  at  Allahabad,  and  the  huge  crowds  that  had  gathered  for 
miles  to  pay  homage  to  his  memory.  There  were  some  ceremonies  at 
home,  and  then  the  last  journey  to  the  Ganges  with  a  mighty  concourse 
of  people.  As  evening  fell  on  the  river  bank  on  that  winter  day,  the 
great  flames  leaped  up  and  consumed  that  body  which  had  meant  so 
much  to  us  who  were  close  to  him  as  well  as  to  millions  in  India. 
Gandhiji  said  a  few  moving  words  to  the  multitude,  and  then  all  of 
us  crept  silently  home.  The  stars  were  out  and  shining  brightly  when 
we  returned,  lonely  and  desolate. 


Many  thousands  of  messages  of  sympathy  came  to  my  mother  and 
to  me.  Lord  and  Lady  Irwin  also  sent  my  mother  a  courteous  message. 
This  tremendous  volume  of  good  will  and  sympathy  took  away  some 
what  the  sting  from  our  sorrow,  but  it  was,  above  all,  the  wonderfully 
soothing  and  healing  presence  of  Gandhi ji  that  helped  my  mother  and 
all  of  us  to  face  that  crisis  in  our  lives. 

I  found  it  difficult  to  realize  that  he  had  gone.  Three  months  later 
I  was  in  Ceylon  with  my  wife  and  daughter,  and  we  were  spending  a 
few  quiet  and  restful  days  at  Nuwara  Eliya.  I  liked  the  place,  and  it 
struck  me  suddenly  that  it  would  suit  father.  Why  not  send  for  him  ? 
He  must  be  tired  out,  and  rest  would  do  him  good.  I  was  on  the  point 
of  sending  a  telegram  to  him  to  Allahabad. 

On  our  return  to  Allahabad  from  Ceylon  the  post  brought  one  day 
a  remarkable  letter.  The  envelope  was  addressed  to  me  in  father's 
handwriting,  and  it  bore  innumerable  marks  and  stamps  of  different 
post  offices.  I  opened  it  in  amazement  to  find  that  it  was,  indeed,  a  let 
ter  from  father  to  me,  only  it  was  dated  February  28,  1926.  It  was  de 
livered  to  me  in  the  summer  of  1931?  thus  having  taken  five  and  a  half 
years  in  its  journey.  The  letter  had  been  written  by  father  at  Ahmeda- 
bad  on  the  eve  of  my  departure  for  Europe  with  Kamala  in  1926.  It  was 
addressed  to  me  to  Bombay  care  of  the  Italian  Lloyd  steamer  on  which 
we  were  traveling.  Apparently  it  just  missed  us  there,  and  then  it  visited 
various  places,  and  perhaps  lay  in  many  pigeonholes  till  some  enter 
prising  person  sent  it  on  to  me.  Curiously  enough,  it  was  a  letter  of 
farewell. 


XXIX 

THE  DELHI  PACT 

ON  THE  DAY  and  almost  at  the  very  hour  of  my  father's  death,  a  large 
group  of  the  Indian  members  of  the  Round  Table  Conference  landed 
in  Bombay.  Mr.  Srinivasa  Sastri  and  Sir  Tej  Bahadur  Sapru,  and  per 
haps  some  others  whom  I  do  not  remember,  came  direct  to  Allahabad. 
Gandhiji  and  some  members  of  the  Congress  Working  Committee 
were  already  there.  There  were  some  private  meetings  at  our  house  at 
which  an  account  was  given  of  what  the  Round  Table  Conference  had 
done. 

The  Round  Table  delegates  did  not  tell  us  anything  of  importance 

186 


about  the  Round  Table  Conference  that  we  did  not  know  already. 
They  did  tell  us  of  various  intrigues  behind  the  scenes,  of  what  Lord 
So-and-So  said  or  Sir  Somebody  did  in  private.  Our  Liberal  friends  in 
India  have  always  seemed  to  me  to  attach  more  importance  to  private 
talks  and  gossip  with  and  about  high  officials  than  to  principles  or  to 
the  realities  of  the  Indian  situation.  Our  informal  discussions  with  the 
Liberal  leaders  did  not  lead  to  anything,  and  our  previous  opinions 
were  only  confirmed  that  the  Round  Table  Conference  decisions  had 
not  the  least  value.  Someone  then  suggested — I  forget  who  he  was — 
that  Gandhiji  should  write  to  the  Viceroy  and  ask  for  an  interview  and 
have  a  frank  talk  with  him.  He  agreed  to  do  so,  although  I  do  not 
think  that  he  expected  much  in  the  way  of  result. 

Gandhiji  always  welcomed  a  meeting  with  those  who  disagreed  with 
him.  But  it  was  one  thing  to  deal  with  individuals  on  personal  or 
minor  issues;  it  was  quite  another  matter  to  come  up  against  an  im 
personal  thing  like  the  British  Government  representing  triumphant 
imperialism.  Realizing  this,  Gandhiji  went  to  the  interview  with  Lord 
Irwin  with  no  high  expectation.  The  civil  disobedience  movement  was 
still  going  on,  though  it  had  toned  down  because  there  was  much  talk 
of  pourparlers  with  Government. 

The  interview  was  arranged  without  delay,  and  Gandhiji  went  off 
to  Delhi,  telling  us  that  if  there  were  any  serious  conversations  with 
the  Viceroy  regarding  a  provisional  settlement,  he  would  send  for  the 
members  of  the  Working  Committee.  A  few  days  later  we  were  all 
summoned  to  Delhi.  For  three  weeks  we  remained  there,  meeting  daily 
and  having  long  and  exhausting  discussions.  Gandhiji  had  frequent 
interviews  with  Lord  Irwin,  but  sometimes  there  was  a  gap  of  three  or 
four  days,  probably  because  the  Government  of  India  was  communi 
cating  with  the  India  Office  in  London.  Sometimes  apparently  small 
matters  or  even  certain  words  would  hold  up  progress.  One  such  word 
was  "suspension"  of  civil  disobedience.  Gandhiji  had  all  along  made  it 
clear  that  civil  disobedience  could  not  be  finally  stopped  or  given  up, 
as  it  was  the  only  weapon  in  the  hands  of  the  people.  It  could,  how 
ever,  be  suspended.  Lord  Irwin  objected  to  this  word  and  wanted 
finality  about  the  word,  to  which  Gandhiji  would  not  agree.  Ultimately 
the  word  "discontinued"  was  used. 

Delhi  attracted  in  those  days  all  manner  of  people.  There  were  many 
foreign  journalists,  especially  Americans,  and  they  were  somewhat  an 
noyed  with  us  for  our  reticence.  They  would  tell  us  that  they  got  much 
more  news  about  the  Gandhiji-Irwin  conversations  from  the  New 


Delhi  Secretariat  than  from  us,  which  was  a  fact.  Then  there  were 
many  people  of  high  degree  who  hurried  to  pay  their  respects  to  Gan 
dhiji,  for  was  not  the  Mahatma's  star  in  the  ascendant?  It  was  very 
amusing  to  see  these  people,  who  had  kept  far  away  from  Gandhiji 
and  the  Congress  and  often  condemned  them,  now  hastening  to  make 
amends.  The  Congress  seemed  to  have  made  good,  and  no  one  knew 
what  the  future  might  hold.  Anyway,  it  was  safer  to  keep  on  good 
terms  with  the  Congress  and  its  leaders.  A  year  later  yet  another  change 
was  witnessed  in  them,  and  they  were  shouting  again  their  deep  abhor 
rence  of  the  Congress  and  all  its  works  and  their  utter  dissociation 
from  it. 

Even  the  communalists  were  stirred  by  events,  and  sensed  with  some 
apprehension  that  they  might  not  occupy  a  very  prominent  place  in  the 
coming  order.  And  so,  many  of  them  came  to  the  Mahatma  and  assured 
him  that  they  were  perfectly  willing  to  come  to  terms  on  the  communal 
issue,  and,  if  only  he  would  take  the  initiative,  there  would  be  no  dif 
ficulty  about  a  settlement. 

The  very  prosperous  gentlemen  who  came  to  visit  Gandhiji  showed 
us  another  side  of  human  nature,  and  a  very  adaptable  side,  for  wher 
ever  they  sensed  power  and  success,  they  turned  to  it  and  welcomed  it 
with  the  sunshine  of  their  smiles.  Many  of  them  were  stanch  pillars 
of  the  British  Government  in  India.  It  was  comforting  to  know  that 
they  would  become  equally  stanch  pillars  of  any  other  government 
that  might  flourish  in  India. 

Often  in  those  days  I  used  to  accompany  Gandhiji  in  his  early  morn 
ing  walks  in  New  Delhi.  That  was  usually  the  only  time  one  had  a 
chance  of  talking  to  him,  for  the  rest  of  the  day  was  cut  up  into  little 
bits,  each  minute  allotted  to  somebody  or  something.  Even  the  early 
morning  walk  was  sometimes  given  over  to  an  interviewer,  usually 
from  abroad,  or  to  a  friend,  come  for  a  personal  consultation.  We 
talked  of  many  matters,  of  the  past,  of  the  present,  and  especially  of 
the  future.  I  remember  how  he  surprised  me  with  one  of  his  ideas 
about  the  future  of  the  Congress.  I  had  imagined  that  the  Congress,  as 
such,  would  automatically  cease  to  exist  with  the  coming  of  freedom. 
He  thought  that  the  Congress  should  continue,  but  on  one  condition: 
that  it  passed  a  self-denying  ordinance,  laying  it  down  that  none  of  its 
members  could  accept  a  pay  job  under  the  State,  and,  if  anyone  wanted 
such  a  post  of  authority  in  the  State,  he  would  have  to  leave  the  Con 
gress.  I  do  not  at  present  remember  how  he  worked  this  out,  but  the 
whole  idea  underlying  it  was  that  the  Congress,  by  its  detachment  and 

188 


having  no  ax  to  grind,  could  exercise  tremendous  moral  pressure  on  the 
Executive  as  well  as  other  departments  of  the  Government,  and  thus 
keep  them  on  the  right  track. 

Now  this  is  an  extraordinary  idea  which  I  find  difficult  to  grasp,  and 
innumerable  difficulties  present  themselves.  It  seems  to  me  that  such 
an  assembly,  if  it  could  be  conceived,  would  be  exploited  by  some 
vested  interest.  But,  practicality  apart,  it  does  help  one  to  understand 
a  little  the  background  of  Gandhiji's  thought. 

Gandhiji's  conception  of  democracy  has  nothing  to  do  with  numbers 
or  majority  or  representation  in  the  ordinary  sense.  It  is  based  on  service 
and  sacrifice,  and  it  uses  moral  pressure.  He  claims  to  be  "a  born  demo 
crat."  "I  make  that  claim,  if  complete  identification  with  the  poorest 
of  mankind,  longing  to  live  no  better  than  they,  and  a  corresponding 
conscious  effort  to  approach  that  level  to  the  best  of  one's  ability,  can 
entitle  one  to  make  it."  This  is  his  definition  of  a  democrat.  He  says 
further: 

"Let  us  recognize  the  fact  that  the  Congress  enjoys  the  prestige  of  a 
democratic  character  and  influence  not  by  the  number  of  delegates  and 
visitors  it  has  drawn  to  its  annual  function,  but  by  an  ever-increasing 
amount  of  service  it  has  rendered.  Western  democracy  is  on  its  trial,  if 
it  has  not  already  proved  a  failure.  May  it  be  reserved  to  India  to  evolve 
the  true  science  of  democracy  by  giving  a  visible  demonstration  of  its 
success. 

"Corruption  and  hypocrisy  ought  not  to  be  the  inevitable  products 
of  democracy,  as  they  undoubtedly  are  today.  Nor  is  bulk  a  true  test 
of  democracy.  True  democracy  is  not  inconsistent  with  a  few  persons 
representing  the  spirit,  the  hope,  and  the  aspirations  of  those  whom 
they  claim  to  represent.  I  hold  that  democracy  cannot  be  evolved  by 
forcible  methods.  The  spirit  of  democracy  cannot  be  imposed  from 
without;  it  has  to  come  from  within." 

This  is  certainly  not  Western  democracy,  as  he  himself  says;  but, 
curiously  enough,  there  is  some  similarity  to  the  communist  conception 
of  democracy.  A  few  communists  will  claim  to  represent  the  real  needs 
and  desires  of  the  masses,  even  though  the  latter  may  themselves  be 
unaware  of  them.  The  similarity,  however,  is  slight  and  does  not  take 
us  far;  the  differences  in  outlook  and  approach  are  far  greater,  notably 
in  regard  to  methods  and  force. 

Whether  Gandhiji  is  a  democrat  or  not,  he  does  represent  the  peasant 
masses  of  India;  he  is  the  quintessence  of  the  conscious  and  subcon 
scious  will  of  those  millions.  It  is  perhaps  something  more  than  repre- 


sentation;  for  he  is  the  idealized  personification  of  those  vast  millions. 
Of  course,  he  is  not  the  average  peasant.  A  man  of  the  keenest  intellect, 
of  fine  feeling  and  good  taste,  wide  vision;  very  human,  and  yet  es 
sentially  the  ascetic  who  has  suppressed  his  passions  and  emotions,  sub 
limated  them  and  directed  them  in  spiritual  channels;  a  tremendous 
personality,  drawing  people  to  himself  like  a  magnet,  and  calling  out 
fierce  loyalties  and  attachments — all  this  so  utterly  unlike  and  beyond 
a  peasant.  And  yet  withal  he  is  the  greatest  peasant,  with  a  peasant's 
outlook  on  affairs,  and  with  a  peasant's  blindness  to  some  aspects  of 
life.  But  India  is  peasant  India,  and  so  he  knows  his  India  well,  reacts 
to  her  slightest  tremors, ,  gauges  a  situation  accurately  and  almost  in 
stinctively,  and  has  a  knack  of  acting  at  the  psychological  moment. 

What  a  problem  and  a  puzzle  he  has  been  not  only  to  the  British 
Government  but  to  his  own  people  and  his  closest  associates!  Perhaps 
in  every  other  country  he  would  be  out  of  place  today,  but  India  still 
seems  to  understand,  or  at  least  appreciate,  the  prophetic-religious  type 
of  man,  talking  of  sin  and  salvation  and  nonviolence.  Indian  mythology 
is  full  of  stories  of  great  ascetics,  who,  by  the  rigor  of  their  sacrifices 
and  self-imposed  penance,  built  up  a  "mountain  of  merit"  which  threat 
ened  the  dominion  of  some  of  the  lesser  gods  and  upset  the  established 
order.  These  myths  have  often  come  to  my  mind  when  I  have  watched 
the  amazing  energy  and  inner  power  of  Gandhiji,  coming  out  of  some 
inexhaustible  spiritual  reservoir.  He  was  obviously  not  of  the  world's 
ordinary  coinage;  he  was  minted  of  a  different  and  rare  variety,  and 
often  the  unknown  stared  at  us  through  his  eyes. 

India,  even  urban  India,  even  the  new  industrial  India,  had  the  im 
press  of  the  peasant  upon  her;  and  it  was  natural  enough  for  her  to 
make  this  son  of  hers,  so  like  her  and  yet  so  unlike,  an  idol  and  a  be 
loved  leader.  He  revived  ancient  and  half-forgotten  memories,  and  gave 
her  glimpses  of  her  own  soul.  Crushed  in  the  dark  misery  of  the  pres 
ent,  she  had  tried  to  find  relief  in  helpless  muttering  and  in  vague 
dreams  of  the  past  and  the  future,  but  he  came  and  gave  hope  to  her 
mind  and  strength  to  her  much-battered  body,  and  the  future  became 
an  alluring  vision.  Two-faced  like  Janus,  she  looked  both  backward  into 
the  past  and  forward  into  the  future,  and  tried  to  combine  the  two. 

Many  of  us  had  cut  adrift  from  this  peasant  outlook,  and  the  old 
ways  of  thought  and  custom  and  religion  had  become  alien  to  us.  We 
called  ourselves  moderns  and  thought  in  terms  of  "progress,"  and  in 
dustrialization  and  a  higher  standard  of  living  and  collectivization.  We 
considered  the  peasant's  viewpoint  reactionary;  and  some,  a  growing 

190 


number,  looked  with  favor  toward  socialism  and  communism.  How 
came  we  to  associate  ourselves  with  Gandhiji  politically,  and  to  become, 
in  many  instances,  his  devoted  followers?  The  question  is  hard  to  an 
swer,  and  to  one  who  does  not  know  Gandhiji,  no  answer  is  likely  to 
satisfy.  Personality  is  an  indefinable  thing,  a  strange  force  that  has 
power  over  the  souls  of  men,  and  he  possesses  this  in  ample  measure, 
and  to  all  who  come  to  him  he  often  appears  in  a  different  aspect.  He 
attracted  people,  but  it  was  ultimately  intellectual  conviction  that  brought 
them  to  him  and  kept  them  there.  They  did  not  agree  with  his  philos 
ophy  of  life,  or  even  with  many  of  his  ideals.  Often  they  did  not  under 
stand  him.  But  the  action  that  he  proposed  was  something  tangible 
which  could  be  understood  and  appreciated  intellectually.  Any  action 
would  have  been  welcome  after  the  long  tradition  of  inaction  which 
our  spineless  politics  had  nurtured;  brave  and  effective  action  with  an 
ethical  halo  about  it  had  an  irresistible  appeal,  both  to  the  intellect  and 
the  emotions.  Step  by  step  he  convinced  us  of  the  Tightness  of  the  action, 
and  we  went  with  him,  although  we  did  not  accept  his  philosophy.  To 
divorce  action  from  the  thought  underlying  it  was  not  perhaps  a  proper 
procedure  and  was  bound  to  lead  to  mental  conflict  and  trouble  later. 
Vaguely  we  hoped  that  Gandhiji,  being  essentially  a  man  of  action  and 
very  sensitive  to  changing  conditions,  would  advance  along  the  line 
that  seemed  to  us  to  be  right.  And  in  any  event  the  road  he  was  fol 
lowing  was  the  right  one  thus  far;  and,  if  the  future  meant  a  parting, 
it  would  be  folly  to  anticipate  it. 

All  this  shows  that  we  were  by  no  means  clear  or  certain  in  our 
minds.  Always  we  had  the  feeling  that,  while  we  might  be  more  logical, 
Gandhiji  knew  India  far  better  than  we  did,  and  a  man  who  could 
command  such  tremendous  devotion  and  loyalty  must  have  something 
in  him  that  corresponded  to  the  needs  and  aspirations  of  the  masses.  If 
we  could  convince  him,  we  felt  that  we  could  also  convert  these  masses. 
And  it  seemed  possible  to  convince  him;  for,  in  spite  of  his  peasant  out 
look,  he  was  the  born  rebel,  a  revolutionary  out  for  big  changes,  whom 
no  fear  of  consequences  could  stop. 

How  he  disciplined  our  lazy  and  demoralized  people  and  made  them 
work — not  by  force  or  any  material  inducement,  but  by  a  gentle  look 
and  a  soft  word  and,  above  all,  by  personal  example!  In  the  early  days 
of  Satyagraha  in  India,  as  long  ago  as  1919,  I  remember  how  Umar 
Sobani  of  Bombay  called  him  the  "beloved  slave-driver."  Much  had 
happened  in  the  dozen  years  since  then.  Umar  had  not  lived  to  see 
these  changes,  but  we  who  had  been  more  fortunate  looked  back  from 

191 


those  early  months  of  1931  with  joy  and  elation.  Nineteen-thirty  had, 
indeed,  been  a  wonder  year  for  us,  and  Gandhiji  seemed  to  have  changed 
the  face  of  our  country  with  his  magic  touch.  No  one  was  foolish 
enough  to  think  that  we  had  triumphed  finally  over  the  British  Govern 
ment.  Our  feeling  of  elation  had  little  to  do  with  the  Government.  We 
were  proud  of  our  people,  of  our  womenfolk,  of  our  youth,  of  our  chil 
dren  for  the  part  they  had  played  in  the  movement.  It  was  a  spiritual 
gain,  valuable  at  any  time  and  to  any  people,  but  doubly  so  to  us,  a 
subject  and  downtrodden  people.  And  we  were  anxious  that  nothing 
should  happen  to  take  this  away  from  us. 

To  me,  personally,  Gandhiji  had  always  shown  extraordinary  kind 
ness  and  consideration,  and  my  father's  death  had  brought  him  par 
ticularly  near  to  me.  He  had  always  listened  patiently  to  whatever  I 
had  to  say  and  had  made  every  effort  to  meet  my  wishes.  This  had,  in 
deed,  led  me  to  think  that  perhaps  some  colleagues  and  I  could  influ 
ence  him  continuously  in  a  socialist  direction,  and  he  had  himself  said 
that  he  was  prepared  to  go  step  by  step  as  he  saw  his  way  to  do  so.  It 
seemed  to  me  almost  inevitable  then  that  he  would  accept  the  funda 
mental  socialist  position,  as  I  saw  no  other  way  out  from  the  violence 
and  injustice  and  waste  and  misery  of  the  existing  order.  He  might  dis 
agree  about  the  methods  but  not  about  the  ideal.  So  I  thought  then,  but 
I  realize  now  that  there  are  basic  differences  between  Gandhiji's  ideals 
and  the  socialist  objective. 

On  the  night  of  the  4th  of  March  we  waited  till  midnight  for 
Gandhiji's  return  from  the  Viceroy's  house.  He  came  back  about  2  A.M., 
and  we  were  wakened  and  told  that  an  agreement  had  been  reached. 
We  saw  the  draft.  I  knew  most  of  the  clauses,  for  they  had  been  often 
discussed,  but,  at  the  very  top,  Clause  21  with  its  reference  to  safe 
guards,  etc.,  gave  me  a  tremendous  shock.  I  was  wholly  unprepared 
for  it.  I  said  nothing  then,  and  we  all  retired. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  The  thing  had  been  done,  our 
leader  had  committed  himself;  and,  even  if  we  disagreed  with  him, 
what  could  we  do  ?  Throw  him  over  ?  Break  from  him  ?  Announce  our 

1  Clause  2  of  the  Delhi  Settlement  (dated  March  5,  1931):  "As  regards  constitutional 
questions,  the  scope  of  future  discussion  is  stated,  with  the  assent  of  His  Majesty's  Gov 
ernment,  to  be  with  the  object  of  considering  further  the  scheme  for  the  constitutional 
Government  of  India  discussed  at  the  Round  Table  Conference.  Of  the  scheme  there 
outlined,  Federation  is  an  essential  part;  so  also  are  Indian  responsibility  and  reserva 
tions  or  safeguards  in  the  interests  of  India,  for  such  matters  as,  for  instance,  defense; 
external  affairs;  the  position  of  minorities;  the  financial  credit  of  India;  and  the  dis 
charge  of  obligations." 

192 


disagreement?  That  might  bring  some  personal  satisfaction  to  an  in 
dividual,  but  it  made  no  difference  to  the  final  decision.  The  civil  dis 
obedience  movement  was  ended  for  the  time  being  at  least,  and  not 
even  the  Working  Committee  could  push  it  on  now,  when  the  Gov 
ernment  could  declare  that  Mr.  Gandhi  had  already  agreed  to  a  settle 
ment.  I  was  perfecdy  willing,  as  were  our  other  colleagues,  to  suspend 
civil  disobedience  and  to  come  to  a  temporary  settlement  with  the  Gov 
ernment.  It  was  not  an  easy  matter  for  any  of  us  to  send  our  comrades 
back  to  jail,  or  to  be  instrumental  in  keeping  many  thousands  in  prison 
who  were  already  there.  Prison  is  not  a  pleasant  place  to  spend  our 
days  and  nights,  though  many  of  us  may  train  ourselves  for  it  and  talk 
light-heartedly  of  its  crushing  routine.  Besides,  three  weeks  or  more  of 
conversations  between  Gandhiji  and  Lord  Irwin  had  led  the  country  to 
expect  that  a  settlement  was  coming,  and  a  final  break  would  have  been 
a  disappointment.  So  all  of  us  in  the  Working  Committee  were  de 
cidedly  in  favor  of  a  provisional  settlement  (for  obviously  it  could  be 
nothing  more),  provided  that  thereby  we  did  not  surrender  any  vital 
position. 

Two  matters  interested  me  above  all  others.  One  was  that  our  ob 
jective  of  independence  should  in  no  way  be  toned  down,  and  the 
second  was  the  effect  of  the  settlement  on  our  United  Provinces  agra 
rian  situation.  Gandhiji  had  made  this  point  quite  clear  to  Lord  Irwin. 
The  peasants  were  unable  to  pay  the  taxes  demanded  by  the  Govern 
ment.  He  had  stated  that,  while  the  no-tax  campaign  would  be  with 
drawn,  we  could  not  advise  the  peasantry  to  pay  beyond  their  capacity. 
The  question  of  our  objective,  of  independence,  also  remained.  I  saw 
in  that  Clause  2  of  the  settlement  that  even  this  seemed  to  be  jeopard 
ized.  Was  it  for  this  that  our  people  had  behaved  so  gallantly  for  a 
year?  Were  all  our  brave  words  and  deeds  to  end  in  this?  The  inde 
pendence  resolution  of  the  Congress,  the  pledge  of  January  26,  so  often 
repeated?  So  I  lay  and  pondered  on  that  March  night,  and  in  my  heart 
there  was  a  great  emptiness  as  of  something  precious  gone,  almost  be 
yond  recall. 

This  is  the  way  the  world  ends, 

Not  with  a  bang,  but  a  whimper. 

Gandhiji  learned  indirectly  of  my  distress,  and  the  next  morning  he 
asked  me  to  accompany  him  in  his  usual  walk.  We  had  a  long  talk, 
and  he  tried  to  convince  me  that  nothing  vital  had  been  lost,  no  sur 
render  of  principle  made.  He  interpreted  Clause  2  of  the  agreement  in 

193 


a  particular  way  so  as  to  make  it  fit  in  with  our  demand  for  independ 
ence,  relying  chiefly  on  the  words  in  it:  "in  the  interests  of  India."  The 
interpretation  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  forced  one,  and  I  was  not  con 
vinced,  but  I  was  somewhat  soothed  by  his  talk.  The  merits  of  the 
agreement  apart,  I  told  him  that  his  way  of  springing  surprises  upon 
us  frightened  me;  there  was  something  unknown  about  him  which, 
in  spite  of  the  closest  association  for  fourteen  years,  I  could  not  under 
stand  at  all  and  which  filled  me  with  apprehension.  He  admitted  the 
presence  of  this  unknown  element  in  him,  and  said  that  He  himself 
could  not  answer  for  it  or  foretell  what  it  might  lead  to. 

For  a  day  or  two  I  wobbled,  not  knowing  what  to  do.  There  was  no 
question  of  opposing  or  preventing  that  agreement  then.  That  stage 
was  past,  and  all  I  could  do  was  to  dissociate  myself  theoretically  from 
it,  though  accepting  it  as  a  matter  of  fact.  That  would  have  soothed 
my  personal  vanity,  but  how  did  it  help  the  larger  issue?  Would  it  not 
be  better  to  accept  gracefully  what  had  been  done,  and  put  the  most 
favorable  interpretation  upon  it,  as  Gandhiji  had  done?  In  an  inter 
view  to  the  press  immediately  after  the  agreement  he  had  stressed  that 
interpretation  and  that  we  stood  completely  by  independence.  He  went 
to  Lord  Irwin  and  made  this  point  quite  clear,  so  that  there  might  be 
no  misapprehension  then  or  in  the  future.  In  the  event  of  the  Con 
gress  sending  any  representative  to  the  Round  Table  Conference,  he 
told  him,  it  could  only  be  on  this  basis  and  to  advance  this  claim.  Lord 
Irwin  could  not,  of  course,  admit  the  claim,  but  he  recognized  the  right 
of  the  Congress  to  advance  it. 

So  I  decided,  not  without  great  mental  conflict  and  physical  distress, 
to  accept  the  agreement  and  work  for  it  wholeheartedly.  There  ap 
peared  to  me  to  be  no  middle  way. 

In  the  course  of  Gandhiji's  interviews  with  Lord  Irwin  prior  to  the 
agreement,  as  well  as  after,  he  had  pleaded  for  the  release  of  political 
prisoners  other  than  the  civil  disobedience  prisoners.  The  latter  were 
going  to  be  discharged  as  part  of  the  agreement  itself.  But  there  were 
thousands  of  others,  both  those  convicted  after  trial  and  detenus  kept 
without  any  charge,  trial,  or  conviction.  Many  of  these  detenus  had 
been  kept  so  for  years,  and  there  had  always  been  a  great  deal  of  re 
sentment  all  over  India,  and  especially  in  Bengal,  which  was  most  af 
fected,  at  this  method  of  imprisonment  without  trial.  Gandhiji  had 
pleaded  for  their  release,  not  necessarily  as  part  of  the  agreement,  but 
as  eminently  desirable  in  order  to  relieve  political  tension  and  estab- 

194 


lish  a  more  normal  atmosphere  in  Bengal.  But  the  Government  was 
not  agreeable  to  this. 

I  left  Delhi  soon  after  the  provisional  settlement  was  arrived  at  and 
went  to  Lucknow.  We  had  taken  immediate  steps  to  stop  civil  disobe 
dience  all  over  the  country,  and  the  whole  Congress  organization  had 
responded  to  our  new  instructions  with  remarkable  discipline.  We  had 
many  people  in  our  ranks  who  were  dissatisfied,  many  firebrands;  and 
we  had  no  means  of  compelling  them  to  desist  from  the  old  activities. 
But  without  a  single  exception  known  to  me,  the  huge  organization 
accepted  in  practice  the  new  role,  though  many  criticized  it.  Our  first 
job  was  to  see  that  the  civil  disobedience  prisoners  were  discharged. 
Thousands  of  these  were  discharged  from  day  to  day,  and  after  some 
time  only  a  number  of  disputed  cases  were  left  in  prison;  apart,  of 
course,  from  the  thousands  of  detenus  and  those  convicted  for  violent 
activities,  who  were  not  released. 

These  discharged  prisoners,  when  they  went  home  to  their  towns  or 
villages,  were  naturally  welcomed  back  by  their  people.  There  were 
often  decorations  and  buntings,  and  processions,  and  meetings,  and 
speeches  and  addresses  of  welcome.  It  was  all  very  natural  and  to  be 
expected,  but  the  change  was  sudden  from  the  time  when  the  police 
lathee  was  always  in  evidence,  and  meetings  and  processions  were  forci 
bly  dispersed.  The  police  felt  rather  uncomfortable,  and  probably  there 
was  a  feeling  of  triumph  among  many  of  our  people  who  came  out 
of  jail.  There  was  little  enough  reason  to  be  triumphant,  but  a  coming 
out  of  jail  always  brings  a  feeling  of  elation  (unless  the  spirit  has  been 
crushed  in  jail),  and  mass  jail  deliveries  add  very  much  to  this  ex 
hilaration. 

I  mention  this  fact  here,  because  in  later  months  great  exception  was 
taken  by  the  Government  to  this  "air  of  triumph,"  and  it  was  made 
a  charge  against  us!  Brought  up  and  living  always  in  an  authoritarian 
atmosphere,  with  a  military  notion  of  government  and  with  no  roots 
or  supports  in  the  people,  nothing  is  more  painful  to  them  than  a 
weakening  of  what  they  consider  their  prestige.  None  of  us,  so  far  as 
I  know,  had  given  the  least  thought  to  the  matter,  and  it  was  with 
great  surprise  that  we  learned  later  that  Government  officials,  from 
the  heights  of  Simla  to  the  plains  below,  were  simmering  with  anger 
and  wounded  pride  at  this  impudence  of  the  people.  These  outbursts 
on  the  part  of  the  Government  and  its  friends  in  the  press,  came  as 
a  revelation  to  us.  They  showed  what  a  state  of  nerves  they  had  been 
in,  what  suppressions  they  had  put  up  with,  resulting  in  all  manner 


of  complexes.  It  was  extraordinary  that  a  few  processions  and  a  few 
speeches  of  our  rank-and-file  men  should  so  upset  them. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was  in  Congress  ranks  then,  and  even  less 
in  the  leadership,  no  idea  of  having  "defeated"  the  British  Govern 
ment.  But  there  was  a  feeling  of  triumph  among  us  at  our  own  peo 
ple's  sacrifices  and  courage. 

I  had  a  little  breakdown  in  health  soon  after  the  Delhi  Pact.  Even 
in  jail  I  had  been  unwell,  and  then  the  shock  of  father's  death,  fol 
lowed  immediately  by  the  long  strain  of  the  Delhi  negotiations,  proved 
too  much  for  my  physical  health.  I  recovered  somewhat  for  the  Kara 
chi  Congress. 

The  Karachi  Congress  was  an  even  greater  personal  triumph  for 
Gandhiji  than  any  previous  Congress  had  been.  The  president,  Sardar 
Vallabhbhai  Patel,  was  one  of  the  most  popular  and  forceful  men  in 
India  with  the  prestige  of  victorious  leadership  in  Gujrat,  but  it  was 
the  Mahatma  who  dominated  the  scene. 

The  principal  resolution  dealt  with  the  Delhi  Pact  and  the  Round 
Table  Conference.  I  accepted  it,  of  course,  as  it  emerged  from  the 
Working  Committee;  but,  when  I  was  asked  by  Gandhiji  to  move 
it  in  the  open  Congress,  I  hesitated.  It  went  against  the  grain,  and  I 
refused  at  first,  and  then  this  seemed  a  weak  and  unsatisfactory  posi 
tion  to  take  up.  Either  I  was  for  it  or  against  it,  and  it  was  not  proper 
to  prevaricate  or  leave  people  guessing  in  the  matter.  Almost  at  the  last 
moment,  a  few  minutes  before  the  resolution  was  taken  up  in  the  open 
Congress,  I  decided  to  sponsor  it.  In  my  speech  I  tried  to  lay  before 
the  great  gathering  quite  frankly  what  my  feelings  were  and  why  I 
had  wholeheartedly  accepted  that  resolution  and  pleaded  with  them 
to  accept  it.  That  speech,  made  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  and  coming 
from  the  heart,  and  with  little  of  ornament  or  fine  phrasing  in  it,  was 
probably  a  greater  success  than  many  of  my  other  efforts  which  had 
followed  a  more  careful  preparation. 

I  spoke  on  other  resolutions,  too,  notably  on  the  Bhagat  Singh  reso 
lution  and  the  one  on  fundamental  rights  and  economic  policy.  The 
latter  resolution  interested  me  especially,  partly  because  of  what  it  con 
tained,  and  even  more  so  because  it  represented  a  new  outlook  in  the 
Congress.  So  far  the  Congress  had  thought  along  purely  nationalist 
lines,  and  had  avoided  facing  economic  issues,  except  in  so  far  as  it 
encouraged  cottage  industries  and  Swadeshi  generally.  In  the  Karachi 
resolution  it  took  a  step,  a  very  short  step,  in  a  socialist  direction  by 
advocating  nationalization  of  key  industries  and  services,  and  various 

196 


other  measures  to  lessen  the  burden  on  the  poor  and  increase  it  on 
the  rich.  This  was  not  socialism  at  all,  and  a  capitalist  state  could  easily 
accept  almost  everything  contained  in  that  resolution. 

This  very  mild  and  prosaic  resolution  evidently  made  the  big  people 
of  the  Government  of  India  furiously  to  think.  Perhaps  they  even  pic 
tured,  with  their  usual  perspicacity,  the  red  gold  of  the  Bolsheviks 
stealing  its  way  into  Karachi  and  corrupting  the  Congress  leaders. 
Living  in  a  kind  of  political  harem,  cut  off  from  the  outer  world,  and 
surrounded  by  an  atmosphere  of  secrecy,  their  receptive  minds  love  to 
hear  tales  of  mystery  and  imagination.  And  then  these  stories  are  given 
out  in  little  bits  in  a  mysterious  manner,  through  favored  newspapers, 
with  a  hint  that  much  more  could  be  seen  if  only  the  veil  were  lifted. 
In  this  approved  and  well-practiced  manner,  frequent  references  have 
been  made  to  the  Karachi  resolution  on  Fundamental  Rights,  etc.,  and 
I  can  only  conclude  that  they  represent  the  Government  view  of  this 
resolution.  The  story  goes  that  a  certain  mysterious  individual  with 
communist  affiliations  drew  up  this  resolution,  or  the  greater  part  of 
it,  and  thrust  it  down  upon  me  at  Karachi;  that  thereupon  I  issued  an 
ultimatum  to  Mr.  Gandhi  to  accept  this  or  to  face  my  opposition  on 
the  Delhi  Pact  issue,  and  Mr.  Gandhi  accepted  it  as  a  sop  to  me  and 
forced  it  down  on  a  tired  Subjects  Committee  and  Congress  on  the 
concluding  day. 

So  far  as  Mr.  Gandhi  is  concerned,  I  have  had  the  privilege  of  know 
ing  him  pretty  intimately  for  the  last  twenty-one  years,  and  the  idea 
of  my  presenting  ultimatums  to  him  or  bargaining  with  him  seems 
to  me  monstrous.  We  may  accommodate  ourselves  to  each  other;  or 
we  may,  on  a  particular  issue,  part  company;  but  the  methods  of  the 
market  place  can  never  affect  our  mutual  dealings. 


XXX 

A  SOUTHERN  HOLIDAY 

MY  DOCTORS  URGED  me  to  take  some  rest  and  go  for  a  change,  and  I 
decided  to  spend  a  month  in  Ceylon.  India,  huge  as  the  country  is,  did 
not  offer  a  real  prospect  of  change  or  mental  rest,  for  wherever  I  might 
go,  I  would  probably  come  across  political  associates  and  the  same  prob 
lems  would  pursue  me.  Ceylon  was  the  nearest  place  within  reach  of 


India,  and  so  to  Ceylon  we  went—Kamala,  Indira,  and  I.  That  was 
the  first  holiday  I  had  had  since  our  return  from  Europe  in  1927,  the 
first  time  since  then  that  my  wife  and  daughter  and  I  holidayed  to 
gether  peacefully  with  little  to  distract  our  attention.  There  has  been 
no  repetition  of  that  experience,  and  sometimes  I  wonder  if  there  will 
be  any. 

And  yet  we  did  not  really  have  much  rest  in  Ceylon,  except  for  two 
weeks  at  Nuwara  Eliya.  We  were  fairly  overwhelmed  by  the  hospi 
tality  and  friendliness  of  all  classes  of  people  there.  It  was  very  pleasant 
to  find  all  this  good  will,  but  it  was  often  embarrassing  also.  At  Nu 
wara  Eliya  groups  of  laborers,  tea-garden  workers  and  others,  would 
come  daily,  walking  many  miles,  bringing  gracious  gifts  with  them — 
wild  flowers,  vegetables,  homemade  butter.  We  could  not,  as  a  rule, 
even  converse  together;  we  merely  looked  at  each  other  and  smiled. 
Our  little  house  was  full  of  those  precious  gifts  of  theirs,  which  they 
had  given  out  of  their  poverty,  and  we  passed  them  on  to  the  local 
hospital  and  orphanages. 

We  visited  many  of  the  famous  sights  and  historical  ruins  of  the 
island,  and  Buddhist  monasteries,  and  the  rich  tropical  forests.  At 
Anuradhapura  I  liked  greatly  an  old  seated  statue  of  the  Buddha.  A 
year  later,  when  I  was  in  Dehra  Dun  Jail,  a  friend  in  Ceylon  sent 
me  a  picture  of  this  statue,  and  I  kept  it  on  my  little  table  in  my 
cell.  It  became  a  precious  companion  for  me,  and  the  strong,  calm 
features  of  Buddha's  statue  soothed  me  and  gave  me  strength  and 
helped  me  to  overcome  many  a  period  of  depression. 

Buddha  has  always  had  a  great  appeal  for  me.  It  is  difficult  for  me 
to  analyze  this  appeal,  but  it  is  not  a  religious  appeal,  and  I  am  not 
interested  in  the  dogmas  that  have  grown  up  round  Buddhism.  It  is 
the  personality  that  has  drawn  me.  So  also  the  personality  of  Christ 
has  attracted  me  greatly. 

I  saw  many  Buddhist  bhiT(kus  (monks)  in  their  monasteries  and  on 
the  highways,  meeting  with  respect  wherever  they  went.  The  dominant 
expression  of  almost  all  of  them  was  one  of  peace  and  calm,  a  strange 
detachment  from  the  cares  of  the  world.  They  did  not  have  intellectual 
faces,  as  a  rule,  and  there  was  no  trace  of  the  fierce  conflicts  of  the 
mind  on  their  countenances.  Life  seemed  to  be  for  them  a  smootH- 
flowing  river  moving  slowly  to  the  great  ocean.  I  looked  at  them  with 
some  envy,  with  just  a  faint  yearning  for  a  haven;  but  I  knew  well 
enough  that  my  lot  was  a  different  one,  cast  in  storms  and  tempests. 
There  was  to  be  no  haven  for  me,  for  the  tempests  within  me  were 

198 


Kamala,  Nehru's  wife 


Jawaharlal  Nehru  with  his  daughter,  Indira 


as  stormy  as  those  outside.  And  if  perchance  I  found  myself  in  a  safe 
harbor,  protected  from  the  fury  of  the  winds,  would  I  be  contented 
or  happy  there? 

For  a  little  while  the  harbor  was  pleasant,  and  one  could  lie  down 
and  dream  and  allow  the  soothing  and  enervating  charm  of  the  tropics 
to  steal  over  one.  Ceylon  fitted  in  with  my  mood  then,  and  the  beauty 
of  the  island  filled  me  with  delight.  Our  month  of  holiday  was  soon 
over,  and  it  was  with  real  regret  that  we  bade  good-by.  So  many  mem 
ories  come  back  to  me  of  the  land  and  her  people;  they  have  been 
pleasant  companions  during  the  long,  empty  days  in  prison.  One  little 
incident  lingers  in  my  memory;  it  was  near  Jaffna,  I  think.  The  teach 
ers  and  boys  of  a  school  stopped  our  car  and  said  a  few  words  of  greet 
ing.  The  ardent,  eager  faces  of  the  boys  stood  out,  and  then  one  of  their 
number  came  to  me,  shook  hands  with  me,  and  without  question  or 
argument,  said:  "I  will  not  falter."  That  bright  young  face  with  shin 
ing  eyes,  full  of  determination,  is  imprinted  in  my  mind.  I  do  not 
know  who  he  was;  I  have  lost  trace  of  him.  But  somehow  I  have  the 
conviction  that  he  will  remain  true  to  his  word  and  will  not  falter 
when  he  has  to  face  life's  difficult  problems. 

From  Ceylon  we  went  to  south  India,  right  to  the  southern  tip  at 
Cape  Comorin.  Amazingly  peaceful  it  was  there.  And  then  through 
Travancore,  Cochin,  Malabar,  Mysore,  Hyderabad— mostly  Indian 
States,  some  the  most  progressive  of  their  kind,  some  the  most  back 
ward.  Travancore  and  Cochin  educationally  far  in  advance  of  British 
India;  Mysore  probably  ahead  industrially;  Hyderabad  almost  a  per 
fect  feudal  relic.  We  received  courtesy  and  welcome  everywhere,  both 
from  the  people  and  the  authorities;  but  behind  that  welcome  I  could 
sense  the  anxiety  of  the  latter  lest  our  visit  might  lead  the  people  to 
think  dangerously. 

In  Bangalore,  in  the  Mysore  State,  I  had  hoisted  at  a  great  gathering 
a  national  flag  on  an  enormous  iron  pole.  Not  long  after  my  departure 
this  pole  was  broken  up  into  bits,  and  the  Mysore  Government  made 
the  display  of  the  flag  an  offense.  This  ill-treatment  and  insult  of  the 
flag  I  had  hoisted  pained  me  greatly. 

In  Travancore  even  the  Congress  had  been  made  an  unlawful  asso 
ciation,  and  no  one  can  enroll  ordinary  members  for  it,  although  in 
British  India  it  is  now  lawful  since  the  withdrawal  of  civil  disobedi 
ence.  Hyderabad  had  no  necessity  for  going  back  or  withdrawing  facili 
ties,  for  it  had  never  moved  forward  at  all  or  given  any  facility  of  the 
kind.  Political  meetings  are  unknown  in  Hyderabad;  even  social  and 

199 


religious  gatherings  are  looked  upon  with  suspicion,  and  special  per 
mission  has  to  be  taken  for  them.  There  are  no  newspapers  worthy  of 
the  name  issued  there,  and,  in  order  to  prevent  the  germs  of  corrup 
tion  from  coming  from  outside,  a  large  number  of  newspapers  pub 
lished  in  other  parts  of  India  are  prevented  entry. 

In  Cochin  we  visited  the  quarter  of  the  "White  Jews,"  as  they  are 
called,  and  saw  one  of  the  services  in  their  old  tabernacle.  The  little 
community  is  very  ancient  and  very  unique.  It  is  dwindling  in  num 
bers.  The  part  of  Cochin  they  live  in,  we  were  told,  resembles  ancient 
Jerusalem.  It  certainly  has  an  ancient  look  about  it. 

We  also  visited,  along  the  backwaters  of  Malabar,  some  of  the  towns 
inhabited  chiefly  by  Christians  belonging  to  the  Syrian  churches.  Few 
people  realize  that  Christianity  came  to  India  as  early  as  the  first  cen 
tury  after  Christ,  long  before  Europe  turned  to  it,  and  established  a 
firm  hold  in  south  India.  Although  these  Christians  have  their  religious 
head  in  Antioch  or  somewhere  else  in  Syria,  their  Christianity  is  prac 
tically  indigenous  and  has  few  outside  contacts. 

To  my  surprise,  we  also  came  across  a  colony  of  Nestorians  in  the 
south;  I  was  told  by  their  bishop  that  there  were  ten  thousand  of  them. 
I  had  labored  under  the  impression  that  the  Nestorians  had  long  been 
absorbed,  in  other  sects,  and  I  did  not  know  that  they  had  ever  flour 
ished  in  India.  But  I  was  told  that  at  one  time  they  had  a  fairly  large 
following  in  India,  extending  as  far  north  as  Benares. 

We  had  gone  to  Hyderabad  especially  to  pay  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Sarojini 
Naidu  and  her  daughters,  Padmaja  and  Leilamani.  During  our  stay 
with  them  a  small  purdanashin  gathering  of  women  assembled  at  their 
house  to  meet  my  wife,  and  Kamala  apparently  addressed  them.  Prob 
ably  she  spoke  of  women's  struggle  for  freedom  against  man-made 
laws  and  customs  (a  favorite  topic  of  hers)  and  urged  the  women  not 
to  be  too  submissive  to  their  menfolk.  There  was  an  interesting  sequel 
to  this  two  or  three  weeks  later,  when  a  distracted  husband  wrote  to 
Kamala  from  Hyderabad  and  said  that  since  her  visit  to  that  city  his 
wife  had  behaved  strangely.  She  would  not  listen  to  him  and  fall  in 
with  his  wishes,  as  she  used  to,  but  would  argue  with  him  and  even 
adopt  an  aggressive  attitude. 

Seven  weeks  after  we  had  sailed  from  Bombay  for  Ceylon  we  were 
back  in  that  city,  and  immediately  I  plunged  again  into  the  whirlpool 
of  Congress  politics. 


200 


XXXI 

FRICTION  AND  THE  ROUND  TABLE  CONFERENCE 

SHOULD  GANDHIJI  GO  to  London  for  the  second  Round  Table  Confer 
ence  or  not?  Again  and  again  the  question  arose,  and  there  was  no 
definite  answer.  No  one  knew  till  the  last  moment — not  even  the 
Congress  Working  Committee  or  Gandhiji  himself.  For  the  answer 
depended  on  many  things,  and  new  happenings  were  constantly  giving 
a  fresh  turn  to  the  situation.  Behind  that  question  and  answer  lay  real 
and  difficult  problems. 

We  were  told  repeatedly,  on  behalf  of  the  British  Government  and 
their  friends,  that  the  first  Round  Table  Conference  had  already  laid 
down  the  framework  of  the  constitution,  that  the  principal  lines  of  the 
picture  had  been  drawn,  and  all  that  remained  was  the  filling  in  of 
this  picture.  But  the  Congress  did  not  think  so;  so  far  as  it  was  con 
cerned,  the  picture  had  to  be  drawn  or  painted  from  the  very  begin 
ning  on  an  almost  blank  canvas.  It  was  true  that  by  the  Delhi  agree 
ment  the  federal  basis  had  been  approved  and  the  idea  of  safeguards 
accepted.  But  a  federation  had  long  seemed  to  many  of  us  the  best 
solution  of  the  Indian  constitutional  problem,  and  our  approval  of  this 
idea  did  not  mean  our  acceptance  of  the  particular  type  of  federation 
envisaged  by  the  first  Round  Table  Conference. 

The  gulf  between  the  Congress  viewpoint  and  that  of  the  British 
Government  was  immense,  and  it  seemed  exceedingly  unlikely  that  it 
could  be  bridged  at  that  stage.  Very  few  Congressmen  expected  any 
measure  of  agreement  between  the  Congress  and  the  Government  at 
the  second  Round  Table  Conference,  and  even  Gandhiji,  optimistic  as 
he  always  is,  could  not  look  forward  to  much.  And  yet  he  was  never 
hopeless  and  was  determined  to  try  to  the  very  end.  All  of  us  felt  that, 
whether  success  came  or  not,  the  effort  had  to  be  made,  in  pursuance 
of  the  Delhi  agreement.  But  there  were  two  vital  considerations  which 
might  have  barred  our  participation  in  the  second  Round  Table  Con 
ference.  We  could  only  go  if  we  had  full  freedom  to  place  our  view 
point  in  its  entirety  before  the  Round  Table  Conference,  and  were  not 
prevented  from  doing  so  by  being  told  that  the  matter  had  already  been 
decided,  or  for  any  other  reason.  We  could  also  be  prevented  from 
being  represented  at  the  Round  Table  Conference  by  conditions  in 
India.  A  situation  might  have  developed  here  which  precipitated  a  con 
flict  with  the  Government,  or  in  which  we  had  to  face  severe  repres- 

201 


sion,  If  this  took  place  in  India  and  our  very  house  was  on  fire,  it  would 
have  been  singularly  out  of  place  for  any  representative  of  ours  to 
ignore  the  fire  and  talk  academically  of  constitutions  and  the  like  in 
London. 

The  situation  was  developing  swiftly  in  India.  In  Bengal  the  Delhi 
agreement  had  made  little  difference,  and  the  tension  continued  and 
grew  worse.  Some  civil  disobedience  prisoners  were  discharged,  but 
thousands  of  politicals,  who  were  technically  not  civil  disobedience 
prisoners,  remained  in  prison.  The  detenus  also  continued  in  jail  or 
detention  camps.  Fresh  arrests  were  frequently  made  for  "seditious" 
speeches  or  other  political  activities,  and  generally  it  was  felt  that  the 
Government  offensive  had  continued  without  any  abatement. 

The  Congress  Working  Committee  felt  very  helpless  before  this 
intricate  problem  of  Bengal.  In  the  United  Provinces  the  agrarian 
situation  was  becoming  worse. 

In  the  Frontier  Province,  too,  the  Delhi  Pact  brought  no  peace. 
There  was  a  permanent  state  of  tension  there,  and  government  was  a 
military  affair,  with  special  laws  and  ordinances  and  heavy  punish 
ments  for  trivial  offenses.  To  oppose  this  state  of  affairs,  Abdul  Ghaffar 
Khan  led  a  great  agitation,  and  he  soon  became  a  bugbear  to  the  Gov 
ernment.  From  village  to  village  he  went  striding  along,  carrying  his 
six-feet-three  of  Pathan  manhood,  and  establishing  centers  of  the  "Red- 
shirts."  Wherever  he  or  his  principal  lieutenants  went,  they  left  a  trail 
of  their  "Redshirts"  behind,  and  the  whole  province  was  soon  covered 
by  branches  of  the  Khudai  Khidmatgar.  They  were  thoroughly  peace 
ful  and,  though  vague  allegations  of  violence  have  been  made  against 
them,  not  a  single  definite  charge  has  been  established.  But,  whether 
they  were  peaceful  or  not,  they  had  the  tradition  of  war  and  violence 
behind  them,  they  lived  near  the  turbulent  frontier,  and  this  rapid 
growth  of  a  disciplined  movement,  closely  allied  to  the  Indian  national 
movement,  thoroughly  upset  the  Government.  I  do  not  suppose  they 
ever  believed  in  its  professions  of  peace  and  nonviolence.  But,  even  if 
they  had  done  so,  their  reactions  to  it  would  only  have  been  of  fright 
and  annoyance.  It  represented  too  much  of  actual  and  potential  powers 
for  them  to  view  it  with  equanimity. 

Of  this  great  movement  the  unquestioned  head  was  Khan  Abdul 
Ghaffar  KhzLii—'Fatyr-e-Afghan"  t(Fa\r^Pathan;r  the  "Pride  of  the 
Pathans,"  "Gandhi-e-Sarhad"  the  "Frontier  Gandhi,"  as  he  came  to  be 
known.  He  had  attained  an  amazing  popularity  in  the  Frontier  Prov 
ince  by  sheer  dint  of  quiet,  persevering  work,  undaunted  by  difficulties 

202 


or  Government  action.  He  was,  and  is,  no  politician  as  politicians  go; 
he  knows  nothing  of  the  tactics  and  maneuvers  of  politics.  A  tall, 
straight  man,  straight  in  body  and  mind,  hating  fuss  and  too  much 
talk,  looking  forward  to  freedom  for  his  Frontier  Province  people 
within  the  framework  of  Indian  freedom,  but  vague  about,  and  unin 
terested  in,  constitutions  and  legal  talk.  Action  was  necessary  to  achieve 
anything,  and  Mahatma  Gandhi  had  taught  a  remarkable  way  of  peace 
ful  action  which  appealed  to  him.  For  action,  organization  was  neces 
sary;  therefore,  without  further  argument  or  much  drafting  of  rules 
for  his  organization,  he  started  organizing— and  with  remarkable 
success. 

He  was  especially  attracted  to  Gandhiji.  At  first  his  shyness  and 
desire  to  keep  in  the  background  made  him  keep  away  from  him. 
Later  they  had  to  meet  to  discuss  various  matters,  and  their  contacts 
grew.  It  was  surprising  how  this  Pathan  accepted  the  idea  of  nonvio 
lence,  far  more  so  in  theory  than  many  of  us.  And  it  was  because  he 
believed  in  it  that  he  managed  to  impress  his  people  with  the  impor 
tance  of  remaining  peaceful  in  spite  of  provocation. 

Abdul  Ghaffar  Khan  has  been  known  and  liked  for  many  years  in 
Congress  circles.  But  he  has  grown  to  be  something  more  than  an 
individual  comrade;  more  and  more  he  has  come  to  be,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  rest  of  India,  the  symbol  of  the  courage  and  sacrifice  of  a  gallant 
and  indomitable  people,  comrades  of  ours  in  a  common  struggle. 

Long  before  I  had  heard  of  Abdul  Ghaffar  Khan,  I  knew  his  brother, 
Dr.  Khan  Sahib.  He  was  a  student  at  St.  Thomas's  Hospital  in  Lon 
don  when  I  was  at  Cambridge,  and  later,  when  I  was  eating  my  Bar 
dinners  at  the  Inner  Temple,  he  and  I  became  close  friends;  and  hardly 
a  day  went  by,  when  I  was  in  London,  when  we  did  not  meet.  I 
returned  to  India,  leaving  him  in  England,  and  he  stayed  on  for  many 
more  years,  serving  as  a  doctor  in  wartime.  I  saw  him  next  in  Naini 
Prison. 

It  was  Gandhiji's  wish  to  go  to  the  Frontier  Province  immediately 
after  the  Karachi  Congress,  but  the  Government  did  not  encourage 
this  at  all.  Repeatedly,  in  later  months,  when  Government  officials 
complained  of  the  doings  of  the  "Redshirts,"  he  pressed  to  be  allowed 
to  go  there  to  find  out  for  himself,  but  to  no  purpose.  Nor  was  my 
going  there  approved.  In  view  of  the  Delhi  agreement,  it  was  not  con 
sidered  desirable  by  us  to  enter  the  Frontier  Province  against  the 
declared  wish  of  the  Government. 

From  all  over  the  country  we  were  continually  receiving  complaints 

203 


from  local  Congress  Committees  pointing  out  breaches  of  the  Delhi 
Pact  by  local  officials.  The  more  important  of  these  were  forwarded  by 
us  to  the  Government,  which,  in  its  turn,  brought  charges  against 
Congressmen  of  violation  of  the  Pact.  So  charges  and  countercharges 
were  made,  and  later  they  were  published  in  the  press.  Needless  to 
say,  this  did  not  result  in  the  improvement  of  the  relations  between  the 
Congress  and  the  Government. 

And  yet  this  friction  on  petty  matters  was  by  itself  of  no  great  impor 
tance.  Its  importance  lay  in  its  revealing  the  development  of  a  more 
fundamental  conflict,  something  which  did  not  depend  on  individuals 
but  arose  from  the  very  nature  of  our  national  struggle  and  the  want  of 
equilibrium  of  our  agrarian  economy,  something  that  could  not  be 
liquidated  or  compromised  away  without  a  basic  change.  Our  national 
movement  had  originally  begun  because  of  the  desire  of  our  upper 
middle  classes  to  find  means  of  self-expression  and  self-growth,  and 
behind  it  there  was  the  political  and  economic  urge.  It  spread  to  the 
lower  middle  classes  and  became  a  power  in  the  land;  and  then  it 
began  to  stir  the  rural  masses,  who  were  finding  it  more  and  more  diffi 
cult  to  keep  up,  as  a  whole,  even  their  miserable  rock-bottom  standard 
of  living.  The  old  self-sufficient  village  economy  had  long  ceased  to 
exist.  Auxiliary  cottage  industries,  ancillary  to  agriculture,  which  had 
relieved  somewhat  the  burden  on  the  land,  had  died  off,  partly  because 
of  State  policy,  but  largely  because  they  could  not  compete  with  the 
rising  machine  industry.  The  burden  on  land  grew,  and  the  growth  of 
Indian  industry  was  too  slow  to  make  much  difference  to  this.  Ill- 
equipped  and  almost  unawares,  the  overburdened  village  was  thrown 
into  the  world  market  and  was  tossed  about  hither  and  thither.  It 
could  not  compete  on  even  terms.  It  was  backward  in  its  methods  of 
production,  and  its  land  system,  resulting  in  a  progressive  fragmenta 
tion  of  holdings,  made  radical  improvement  impossible.  So  the  agricul 
tural  classes,  both  landlords  and  tenants,  went  downhill,  except  during 
brief  periods  of  boom.  The  landlords  tried  to  pass  on  the  burden  to 
their  tenantry,  and  the  growing  pauperization  of  the  peasantry — both 
the  petty  landholders  and  the  tenants — drew  them  to  the  national 
movement.  The  agricultural  proletariat,  the  large  numbers  of  landless 
laborers  in  rural  areas,  were  also  attracted;  and  for  all  these  rural  classes 
nationalism  or  Swaraj  meant  fundamental  changes  in  the  land  system 
which  would  relieve  or  lessen  their  burdens  and  provide  land  for  the 
landless.  These  desires  found  no  clear  expression  either  in  the  peasantry 
or  in  the  middle-class  leaders  of  the  national  movement. 

204 


The  civil  disobedience  movement  of  1930  happened  to  fit  in  unbe 
known  to  its  own  leaders  at  first,  with  the  great  world  slump  in 
industry  and  agriculture.  The  rural  masses  were  powerfully  affected 
by  this  slump,  and  they  turned  to  the  Congress  and  civil  disobedience. 
For  them  it  was  not  a  matter  of  a  fine  constitution  drawn  up  in  Lon 
don  or  elsewhere,  but  of  a  basic  change  in  the  land  system,  especially 
in  the  zamindari  areas.  The  zamindari  system,  indeed,  seemed  to  have 
outlived  its  day  and  had  no  stability  left  in  it.  But  the  British  Govern 
ment,  situated  as  it  was,  could  not  venture  to  undertake  a  radical 
change  of  this  land  system.  Even  when  it  had  appointed  the  Royal 
Agricultural  Commission,  the  terms  of  reference  to  it  barred  a  discus 
sion  of  the  question  of  ownership  of  land  or  the  system  of  land  tenure. 

The  British  Government,  like  most  governments  I  suppose,  has  an 
idea  that  much  of  the  trouble  in  India  is  due  to  "agitators."  It  is  a  sin 
gularly  inept  notion.  India  has  had  a  great  leader  during  the  past 
fifteen  years  who  has  won  the  affection  and  even  adoration  of  her 
millions  and  has  seemed  to  impose  his  will  on  her  in  many  ways.  He 
has  played  a  vitally  important  part  in  her  recent  history,  and  yet  more 
important  than  he  were  the  people  themselves  who  seemed  to  follow 
blindly  his  behests.  The  people  were  the  principal  actors,  and  behind 
them,  pushing  them  on,  were  great  historical  urges  which  prepared 
them  and  made  them  ready  to  listen  to  their  leader's  piping.  But  for 
that  historical  setting  and  political  and  social  urges,  no  leaders  or  agi 
tators  could  have  inspired  them  to  action.  It  was  Gandhiji's  chief  virtue 
as  a  leader  that  he  could  instinctively  feel  the  pulse  of  the  people  and 
know  when  conditions  were  ripe  for  growth  and  action. 

In  1930  the  national  movement  in  India  fitted  in  for  a  while  with  the 
growing  social  forces  of  the  country,  and  because  of  this  a  great  power 
came  to  it,  a  sense  of  reality,  as  if  it  were  indeed  marching  step  by  step 
with  history.  The  Congress  represented  that  national  movement,  and 
this  power  and  strength  were  reflected  in  the  growth  of  Congress 
prestige.  This  was  something  vague,  incalculable,  indefinable,  but 
nevertheless  very  much  present.  The  peasantry,  of  course,  turned  to 
the  Congress  and  gave  it  its  real  strength;  the  lower  middle-class 
formed  the  backbone  of  its  fighting  ranks.  Even  the  upper  bourgeoisie, 
troubled  by  this  new  atmosphere,  thought  it  safer  to  be  friendly  with 
the  Congress.  The  great  majority  of  the  textile  mills  in  India  signed 
undertakings  prescribed  by  the  Congress  and  were  afraid  of  doing 
things  which  might  bring  on  them  the  displeasure  of  the  Congress. 
While  people  argued  fine  legal  points  in  London  at  the  first  Round 

205 


Table  Conference,  the  reality  of  power  seemed  to  be  slowly  and  imper 
ceptibly  flowing  toward  the  Congress  as  representing  the  people. 

This  vague  sense  of  a  dual  authority  growing  in  the  country  was  nat 
urally  most  irritating  to  the  Government.  The  sense  of  conflict  grew, 
and  we  could  feel  the  hardening  on  the  side  of  Government.  Soon  after 
the  Delhi  Pact,  Lord  Irwin  had  left  India,  and  Lord  Willingdon  had 
come  in  his  place  as  Viceroy.  A  legend  grew  up  that  the  new  Viceroy 
was  a  hard  and  stern  person  and  not  so  amenable  to  compromise  as 
his  predecessor.  Many  of  our  politicians  have  inherited  a  "liberal"  habit 
of  thinking  of  politics  in  terms  of  persons  rather  than  of  principles. 
They  do  not  realize  that  the  broad  imperial  policy  of  the  British  Gov 
ernment  does  not  depend  on  the  personal  views  of  the  Viceroys.  The 
change  of  Viceroys,  therefore,  did  not  and  could  not  make  any  differ 
ence,  but,  as  it  happened,  the  policy  of  Government  gradually  changed 
owing  to  the  development  of  the  situation.  The  Civil  Service  hierarchy 
had  not  approved  of  pacts  and  dealings  with  the  Congress;  all  their 
training  and  authoritarian  conceptions  of  government  were  opposed  to 
this.  They  had  an  idea  that  they  had  added  to  the  Congress  influence 
and  Gandhij  i's  prestige  by  dealing  with  him  almost  as  an  equal  and 
it  was  about  time  that  he  was  brought  down  a  peg  or  two.  The  notion 
was  a  very  foolish  one,  but  then  the  Indian  Civil  Service  is  not  known 
for  the  originality  of  its  conceptions.  Whatever  the  reason,  the  Gov 
ernment  stiffened  its  back  and  tightened  its  hold,  and  it  seemed  to  tell 
us,  in  the  words  of  the  old  prophet:  My  little  finger  is  thicker  than 
my  father's  loins.  Whereas  he  chastised  you  with  whips,  I  will  chastise 
you  with  scorpions. 

But  the  time  for  chastisement  was  not  yet.  If  possible  the  Congress 
was  to  be  represented  at  the  second  Round  Table  Conference.  Twice 
Gandhij  i  went  to  Simla  to  have  long  conversations  with  the  Viceroy 
and  other  officials. 

His  first  visit  to  Simla  was  inconclusive.  The  second  visit  took  place 
in  the  last  week  of  August.  A  final  decision  had  to  be  taken  one  way 
or  the  other,  but  still  he  found  it  difficult  to  make  up  his  mind  to  leave 
India.  In  Bengal,  in  the  Frontier  Province,  and  in  the  United  Provinces, 
he  saw  trouble  ahead,  and  he  did  not  want  to  go  unless  he  had  some 
assurance  of  peace  in  India.  At  last  some  kind  of  an  agreement  was 
arrived  at  with  the  Government,  embodied  in  a  statement  and  some 
letters  that  were  exchanged.  This  was  done  at  the  very  last  moment 
to  enable  him  to  travel  by  the  liner  that  was  carrying  the  delegates  to 
the  Round  Table  Conference.  Indeed,  it  was  after  the  last  moment,  in 

206 


a  sense,  as  the  last  train  had  gone.  A  special  train  from  Simla  to  Kalka 
was  arranged,  and  other  trains  were  delayed  to  make  the  connections. 

I  accompanied  him  from  Simla  to  Bombay,  and  there,  one  bright 
morning  toward  the  end  of  August,  I  waved  good-by  to  him  as  he 
was  carried  away  to  the  Arabian  Sea  and  the  far  West.  That  was  my 
last  glimpse  of  him  for  two  years. 

Gandhij i  went  to  London  as  the  sole  representative  of  the  Congress 
to  the  Round  Table  Conference.  We  had  decided,  after  long  debate, 
not  to  have  additional  representatives.  Partly  this  was  due  to  our  desire 
to  have  our  best  men  in  India  at  a  very  critical  time,  when  the  most 
tactful  handling  of  the  situation  was  necessary.  We  felt  that,  in  spite  of 
the  Round  Table  Conference  meeting  in  London,  the  center  of  gravity 
lay  in  India,  and  developments  in  India  would  inevitably  have  their 
reactions  in  London.  We  wanted  to  check  untoward  developments,  and 
to  keep  our  organization  in  proper  condition.  This  was,  however,  not 
the  real  reason  for  our  sending  only  one  representative. 

We  were  not  joining  the  Round  Table  Conference  to  talk  intermi 
nably  about  the  petty  details  of  a  constitution.  We  were  not  interested 
in  those  details  at  that  stage,  and  they  could  only  be  considered  when 
some  agreement  on  fundamental  matters  had  been  arrived  at  with  the 
British  Government.  The  real  question  was  how  much  power  was  to 
be  transferred  to  a  democratic  India.  If  by  a  strange  chance  a  basis  of 
agreement  was  found  on  those  fundamentals,  the  rest  followed  easily 
enough.  It  had  been  settled  between  us  that,  in  case  of  such  an  agree 
ment,  Gandhij  i  would  immediately  summon  to  London  some  or  even 
all  the  members  of  the  Working  Committee,  so  that  we  could  then 
share  the  work  of  detailed  negotiation. 

The  British  Government  had,  however,  no  intention  of  falling  in 
with  our  wishes  in  the  matter.  Their  policy  was  to  postpone  the  con 
sideration  of  fundamental  questions  and  to  make  the  Conference  ex 
haust  itself,  more  or  less,  on  minor  and  immaterial  matters.  Even  when 
major  matters  were  considered,  the  Government  held  its  hand,  refused 
to  commit  itself,  and  promised  to  express  its  opinion  after  mature  con 
sideration  later  on.  Their  trump  card  was,  of  course,  the  communal 
issue,  and  they  played  it  for  all  it  was  worth.  It  dominated  the  Con 
ference. 

The  great  majority  of  the  Indian  members  of  the  Conference  fell  in, 
most  of  them  willingly,  some  unwillingly,  with  this  official  maneuver 
ing.  They  were  a  motley  assembly.  Few  of  them  represented  any  but 
themselves.  Some  were  able  and  respected;  of  many  others  this  could 

207 


not  be  said.  As  a  whole  they  represented,  politically  and  socially,  the 
most  reactionary  elements  in  India.  So  backward  and  reactionary  were 
they  that  the  Indian  Liberals,  so  very  moderate  and  cautious  in  India, 
shone  as  progressives  in  their  company. 

It  was  fitting  that  in  this  assembly  of  vested  interests — imperialist, 
feudal,  financial,  industrial,  religious,  communal — the  leadership  of  the 
British  Indian  delegation  should  usually  fall  to  the  Aga  Khan,  who 
in  his  own  person  happened  to  combine  all  these  interests  in  some  de 
gree.  Closely  associated  as  he  has  been  with  British  imperialism  and 
the  British  ruling  class  for  over  a  generation,  he  could  thoroughly  ap 
preciate  and  represent  our  rulers'  interests  and  viewpoint.  He  was  an 
able  representative  of  Imperialist  England  at  that  Round  Table  Con 
ference.  The  irony  of  it  was  that  he  was  supposed  to  represent  India. 

The  scales  were  terribly  loaded  against  us  at  that  Conference,  and, 
little  as  we  expected  from  it,  we  watched  its  proceedings  with  amaze 
ment  and  ever-growing  disgust.  We  saw  the  pitiful  and  absurdly  inade 
quate  attempts  to  scratch  the  surface  of  national  and  economic  prob 
lems,  the  pacts  and  intrigues  and  maneuvers,  the  joining  of  hands  of 
some  of  our  own  countrymen  with  the  most  reactionary  elements  of 
the  British  Conservative  party,  the  endless  talk  over  petty  issues,  the 
deliberate  shelving  of  all  that  really  mattered,  the  continuous  playing 
into  the  hands  of  the  big  vested  interests  and  especially  British  im 
perialism,  the  mutual  squabbles,  varied  by  feasting  and  mutual  admira 
tion.  It  was  all  jobbery — big  jobs,  litde  jobs,  jobs  and  seats  for  the 
Hindus,  for  the  Moslems,  for  the  Sikhs,  for  the  Anglo-Indians,  for  the 
Europeans;  but  all  jobs  for  the  upper  classes— the  masses  had  no  look-in. 
Opportunism  was  rampant,  and  different  groups  seemed  to  prowl 
about  like  hungry  wolves  waiting  for  their  prey — the  spoils  under  the 
new  constitution.  The  very  conception  of  freedom  had  taken  the  form 
of  large-scale  jobbery — "Indianization"  it  was  called — more  jobs  for 
Indians  in  the  army,  in  the  civil  services,  etc.  No  one  thought  in  terms 
of  independence,  of  real  freedom,  of  a  transfer  of  power  to  a  demo 
cratic  India,  of  the  solution  of  any  of  the  vital  and  urgent  economic 
problems  facing  the  Indian  people.  Was  it  for  this  that  India  had  strug 
gled  so  manfully?  Must  we  exchange  this  murky  air  for  the  rare  at 
mosphere  of  fine  idealism  and  sacrifice? 

Gandhiji  was  in  an  extraordinarily  difficult  position  in  that  Con 
ference,  and  we  wondered  from  afar  how  he  could  tolerate  it.  But  with 
amazing  patience  he  carried  on  and  made  attempt  after  attempt  to  find 
some  basis  of  agreement.  One  characteristic  gesture  he  made,  which 

208 


suddenly  showed  up  how  communalism  really  covered  political  reac 
tion.  He  did  not  like  many  of  the  communal  demands  put  forward 
on  behalf  of  the  Moslem  delegates  to  the  Conference;  he  thought,  and 
his  own  Moslem  nationalist  colleagues  thought  so,  that  some  of  these 
demands  were  a  bar  to  freedom  and  democracy.  But  still  he  offered  to 
accept  the  whole  lot  of  them,  without  question  or  argument,  if  the 
Moslem  delegates  there  joined  forces  with  him  and  the  Congress  on 
the  political  issue,  that  is,  on  independence. 

The  offer,  however,  was  not  accepted,  and  indeed  it  is  a  little  difficult 
to  imagine  the  Aga  Khan  standing  for  Indian  independence.  This 
demonstrated  that  the  real  trouble  was  not  communal,  although  the 
communal  issue  loomed  large  before  the  Conference.  It  was  political 
reaction  that  barred  all  progress  and  sheltered  itself  behind  the  com 
munal  issue.  By  careful  selection  of  its  nominees  for  the  Conference, 
the  British  Government  had  collected  these  reactionary  elements,  and, 
by  controlling  the  procedure,  they  had  made  the  communal  issue  the 
major  issue,  and  an  issue  on  which  no  agreement  was  possible  between 
the  irreconcilables  gathered  there. 

The  British  Government  succeeded  in  its  endeavor,  and  thereby  dem 
onstrated  that  it  still  has,  not  only  the  physical  strength  to  uphold  its 
Empire,  but  also  the  cunning  and  statecraft  to  carry  on  the  imperial 
tradition  for  a  while  longer. 

The  Conference  itself,  with  all  its  scheming  and  opportunism  and 
futile  meandering,  was  no  failure  for  India.  It  was  constituted  so  as  to 
fail,  and  the  people  of  India  could  hardly  be  made  responsible  for  its 
failing.  But  it  succeeded  in  diverting  world  attention  from  real  issues 
in  India,  and,  in  India  itself,  it  produced  disillusion  and  depression  and 
a  sense  of  humiliation.  It  gave  a  handle  to  reactionary  forces  to  raise 
their  heads  again. 

Success  or  failure  was  to  come  to  the  people  of  the  country  by  events 
in  India  itself.  The  powerful  nationalist  movement  could  not  fade  away, 
because  of  distant  maneuvering  in  London.  Nationalism  represented 
a  real  and  immediate  need  of  the  middle  classes  and  peasantry,  and 
by  its  means  they  sought  to  solve  their  problems.  The  movement  could 
thus  either  succeed,  fulfil  its  function,  and  give  place  to  some  other 
movement,  which  would  carry  the  people  further  on  the  road  to  prog 
ress  and  freedom,  or  else  it  could  be  forcibly  suppressed  for  the  time 
being.  That  struggle  was  to  come  in  India  soon  after  and  was  to  re 
sult  in  temporary  disablement.  The  second  Round  Table  Conference 

209 


could  not  affect  this  struggle  much,  but  it  did  create  an  atmosphere 
somewhat  unfavorable  to  it. 


XXXII 

ARRESTS,  ORDINANCES,  PROSCRIPTIONS 

SOME  TIME  AFTER  Gandhiji  had  gone  to  London  two  incidents  suddenly 
concentrated  all-India  attention  on  the  situation  in  Bengal.  These  two 
took  place  in  Hijli  and  Chittagong. 

Hijli  was  a  special  detention  camp  jail  for  detenus.  It  was  officially 
announced  that  a  riot  had  taken  place  inside  the  camp,  the  detenus  had 
attacked  the  staff,  and  the  latter  had  been  forced  to  fire  on  them.  Two 
detenus  were  killed  by  this  firing,  and  many  were  wounded.  A  local 
official  inquiry,  held  immediately  after,  absolved  the  staff  from  all 
blame  for  this  firing  and  its  consequences.  But  there  were  many  curious 
features;  some  facts  leaked  out  which  did  not  fit  in  with  the  official 
version,  and  vehement  demands  were  made  for  a  fuller  inquiry.  Con 
trary  to  the  usual  official  practice  in  India,  the  Government  of  Bengal 
appointed  an  inquiring  committee  consisting  of  high  judicial  officers. 
It  was  a  purely  official  committee,  but  it  took  evidence  and  considered 
the  matter  fully,  and  its  findings  were  against  the  staff  of  the  detention 
camp  jail.  It  was  held  that  the  fault  was  largely  that  of  the  staff  and  the 
firing  was  unjustified.  The  previous  Government  communiques  issued 
on  the  subject  were  thus  entirely  falsified. 

There  was  nothing  very  extraordinary  about  the  Hijli  occurrence. 
Unhappily,  such  incidents  are  not  rare  in  India,  and  one  frequently 
reads  of  "jail  riots"  and  of  the  gallant  suppression  of  unarmed  and 
helpless  prisoners  within  the  jail  by  armed  warders  and  others.  Hijli 
was  unusual  in  so  far  as  it  exposed,  and  exposed  officially,  the  utter 
one-sidedness,  and  even  the  falsity,  of  Government  communiques  on 
such  occurrences. 

The  Chittagong  affair  was  much  more  serious.  A  terrorist  shot  down 
and  killed  a  Moslem  police  inspector.  This  was  followed  by  a  Hindu- 
Moslem  riot,  or  so  it  was  called.  It  was  patent,  however,  that  it  was 
something  much  more  than  that,  something  different  from  the  usual 
communal  riot.  It  was  obvious  that  the  terrorist's  act  had  nothing  to 
do  with  communalism;  it  was  directed  against  a  police  officer,  regard 
less  of  whether  he  was  a  Hindu  or  Moslem.  Yet  it  is  true  that  there 

210 


was  some  Hindu-Moslem  rioting  afterward.  How  this  started,  what 
was  the  occasion  for  it,  has  not  been  cleared  up,  although  very  serious 
charges  have  been  made  by  responsible  public  men.  Another  feature 
of  the  rioting  was  the  part  taken  by  definite  groups  of  other  people, 
Anglo-Indians,  chiefly  railway  employees,  and  other  Government  em 
ployees,  who  are  alleged  to  have  indulged  in  reprisals  on  a  large  scale. 
J.  M.  Sen-Gupta  and  other  noted  leaders  of  Bengal  made  specific  alle 
gations  in  regard  to  the  occurrences  in  Chittagong,  and  challenged  an 
inquiry  or  even  a  suit  for  defamation,  but  the  Government  preferred 
to  take  no  such  step. 

The  Chittagong  murder  of  a  police  official  by  a  terrorist,  and  its 
consequences,  made  one  realize  very  vividly  the  dangerous  possibili 
ties  of  terroristic  activity  and  the  enormous  harm  it  might  do  to  the 
cause  of  Indian  unity  and  freedom.  The  reprisals  that  followed  also 
showed  us  that  fascist  methods  had  appeared  in  India.  Since  then  there 
have  been  many  instances,  notably  in  Bengal,  of  such  reprisals,  and  the 
fascist  spirit  has  undoubtedly  spread  in  the  European  and  Anglo- 
Indian  community.  Some  of  the  Indian  hangers-on  of  British  imperial 
ism  have  also  imbibed  it. 

I  went  to  Calcutta  for  a  few  days  in  November  1931.  I  had  a  very 
crowded  program  and,  apart  from  meeting  individuals  and  groups 
privately,  addressed  a  number  of  mass  meetings.  In  all  these  meetings 
I  discussed  the  question  of  terrorism  and  tried  to  show  how  wrong  and 
futile  and  harmful  it  was  for  Indian  freedom.  I  did  not  abuse  the  ter 
rorists,  nor  did  I  call  them  "dastardly"  or  "cowardly,"  after  the  fashion 
of  some  of  our  countrymen  who  have  themselves  seldom,  if  ever, 
yielded  to  the  temptation  of  doing  anything  brave  or  involving  risk. 
It  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  singularly  stupid  thing  to  call  a  man  or 
woman  who  is  constantly  risking  his  life  a  coward.  And  the  reaction 
of  it  on  that  man  is  to  make  him  a  little  more  contemptuous  of  his 
timid  critics  who  shout  from  a  distance  and  are  incapable  of  doing 
anything. 

On  my  last  evening  in  Calcutta,  a  litde  before  I  was  due  to  go  to 
the  station  for  my  departure,  two  young  men  called  on  me.  They  were 
very  young,  about  twenty,  with  pale,  nervous  faces  and  brilliant  eyes. 
I  did  not  know  who  they  were,  but  soon  I  guessed  their  errand.  They 
were  very  angry  with  me  for  my  propaganda  against  terroristic  vio 
lence.  They  said  that  it  was  producing  a  bad  effect  on  young  men, 
and  they  could  not  tolerate  my  intrusion  in  this  way.  We  had  a  little 
argument;  it  was  a  hurried  one,  for  the  time  of  my  departure  was  at 

211 


hand.  I  am  afraid  our  voices  and  our  tempers  rose,  and  I  told  them 
some  hard  things;  and,  as  I  left  them,  they  warned  me  finally  that  if 
I  continued  to  misbehave  in  the  future  they  would  deal  with  me  as 
they  had  dealt  with  others. 

And  so  I  left  Calcutta,  and,  as  I  lay  in  my  berth  in  the  train  that 
night,  I  was  long  haunted  by  the  excited  faces  of  these  two  boys.  Full 
of  life  and  nervous  energy  they  were;  what  good  material  if  only  they 
turned  the  right  way!  I  was  sorry  that  I  had  dealt  with  them  hurriedly 
and  rather  brusquely,  and  wished  I  had  had  the  chance  of  a  long  con 
versation  with  them.  Perhaps  I  could  have  convinced  them  to  apply 
their  bright  young  lives  to  other  ways,  ways  of  serving  India  and  free 
dom,  in  which  there  was  no  lack  of  opportunity  for  daring  and  self- 
sacrifice.  Often  I  have  thought  of  them  in  these  afteryears.  I  never 
found  out  their  names,  nor  did  I  have  any  other  trace  of  them;  and  I 
wonder,  sometimes,  if  they  are  dead  or  in  some  cell  in  the  Andaman 
Islands. 

It  was  December.  The  second  Peasant  Conference  took  place  in  Alla 
habad,  and  then  I  hurried  south  to  the  Karnataka  to  fulfill  an  old 
promise  made  to  my  old  comrade  of  the  Hindustani  Seva  Dal,  Doctor 
N.  S.  Hardiker.  The  Seva  Dal,  the  volunteer  wing  of  the  national 
movement,  had  all  along  been  an  auxiliary  of  the  Congress,  though  its 
organization  was  quite  separate.  In  the  summer  of  1931,  however,  the 
Working  Committee  decided  to  absorb  it  completely  into  the  Congress 
organization,  and  to  make  it  the  volunteer  department  of  the  Congress. 
This  was  done,  and  Hardiker  and  I  were  put  in  charge  of  it. 

On  my  way  to  the  Karnataka  from  Allahabad  I  had  gone  to  Bom 
bay  with  Kamala.  She  was  again  ill,  and  I  arranged  for  her  treatment 
in  Bombay.  It  was  in  Bombay,  almost  immediately  after  our  arrival 
from  Allahabad,  that  we  learned  that  the  Government  of  India  had 
promulgated  a  special  ordinance  for  the  United  Provinces.  They  had 
decided  not  to  wait  for  Gandhiji's  arrival,  although  he  was  already  on 
the  high  seas  and  due  in  Bombay  soon.  The  ordinance  was  supposed 
to  deal  with  the  agrarian  agitation,  but  it  was  so  extraordinarily  wide- 
flung  and  far-reaching  that  it  made  all  political  or  public  activity 
impossible.  It  provided  even  for  the  punishment  of  parents  and  guard 
ians  for  the  sins  of  their  children  and  wards— a  reversal  of  the  old 
biblical  practice. 

I  was  eager  to  go  back  to  Allahabad  and  to  give  up  the  Karnataka 
tour.  I  felt  that  my  place  was  with  my  comrades  in  the  United  Prov 
inces,  and  to  be  far  away  when  so  much  was  happening  at  home  was 

212 


an  ordeal.  I  decided,  however,  in  favor  of  adhering  to  the  Karnataka 
program.  On  my  return  to  Bombay  some  friends  advised  me  to  stay 
on  for  Gandhi ji's  arrival,  which  was  due  exactly  a  week  later.  But  this 
was  impossible.  From  Allahabad  came  news  of  Purushottam  Das  Tan- 
don's  arrest  and  other  arrests.  There  was,  besides,  our  Provincial  Con 
ference  which  had  been  fixed  at  Etawah  for  that  week.  And  so  I 
decided  to  go  to  Allahabad  and  to  return  to  Bombay  six  days  later,  if 
I  were  free,  to  meet  Gandhiji  and  to  attend  a  meeting  of  the  Working 
Committee.  I  left  Kamala  bedridden  in  Bombay. 

Even  before  I  had  reached  Allahabad,  at  Chheoki  station,  an  order 
under  the  new  ordinance  was  served  on  me.  At  Allahabad  station  an 
other  attempt  was  made  to  serve  a  duplicate  of  that  order  on  me;  at 
my  house  a  third  attempt  was  made  by  a  third  person.  Evidently  no 
risks  were  being  taken.  The  order  interned  me  within  the  municipal 
limits  of  Allahabad,  and  I  was  told  that  I  must  not  attend  any  public 
meeting  or  function,  or  speak  in  public,  or  write  anything  in  a  news 
paper  or  leaflet.  There  were  many  other  restrictions.  I  found  that  a 
similar  order  had  been  served  on  many  of  my  colleagues.,  including 
Tasadduq  Sherwani.  The  next  morning  I  wrote  to  the  district  magis 
trate  (who  had  issued  the  order)  acknowledging  receipt  of  it  and  in 
forming  him  that  I  did  not  propose  to  take  my  orders  from  him  as  to 
what  I  was  to  do  or  not  to  do.  I  would  carry  on  with  my  ordinary 
work  in  the  ordinary  way,  and  in  the  course  of  this  work  I  proposed 
to  return  to  Bombay  soon  to  meet  Mr.  Gandhi  and  take  part  in  the 
meeting  of  the  Working  Committee,  of  which  I  was  the  secretary. 

A  new  problem  confronted  us.  I  had  come  from  Bombay  with  the 
intention  of  suggesting  a  postponement  of  the  Provincial  Conference, 
as  it  clashed  somewhat  with  Gandhiji's  arrival,  and  in  order  to  avoid 
conflict  with  the  Government.  But  before  my  return  to  Allahabad  a 
peremptory  message  had  come  from  the  United  Provinces  Government 
to  our  president,  Sherwani,  inquiring  if  our  Conference  would  con 
sider  the  agrarian  question,  for  if  so,  they  would  prohibit  the  Confer 
ence  itself.  It  was  patent  that  the  main  purpose  of  the  Conference  was 
to  discuss  the  agrarian  question,  which  was  agitating  the  whole  prov 
ince;  to  meet  and  not  to  discuss  it  would  be  the  height  of  absurdity 
and  self-stultification.  And  in  any  event  our  president  or  anyone  else 
had  no  authority  to  tie  down  the  Conference.  Quite  apart  from  the 
Government's  threat,  it  was  the  intention  of  some  of  us  to  postpone 
the  Conference,  but  this  threat  made  a  difference.  Many  of  us  were 
rather  obstinate  in  such  matters,  and  the  idea  of  being  dictated  to  by 

213 


Government  was  not  pleasant.  After  long  argument  we  decided  to 
swallow  our  pride  and  to  postpone  the  Conference.  We  did  so  because 
almost  at  any  cost  we  wanted  still  to  avoid  the  development  of  the 
conflict,  which  had  already  begun,  till  Gandhiji's  arrival.  We  did  not 
want  him  to  be  confronted  with  a  situation  in  which  he  was  powerless 
to  take  the  helm.  In  spite  of  our  postponement  of  our  Provincial  Con 
ference  there  was  a  great  display  of  the  police  and  military  at  Etawah, 
some  stray  delegates  were  arrested,  and  the  Swadeshi  Exhibition  there 
was  seized  by  the  military. 

Sherwani  and  I  decided  to  leave  Allahabad  for  Bombay  on  the 
morning  of  December  26.  As  we  got  into  the  train  we  read  in  the 
morning's  papers  of  the  new  Frontier  Province  ordinance  and  the 
arrest  of  Abdul  Ghaffar  Khan  and  Doctor  Khan  Sahib  and  others. 
Very  soon  our  train,  the  Bombay  Mail,  came  to  a  sudden  halt  at  a  way 
side  station,  Iradatganj,  which  is  not  one  of  its  usual  stopping  places, 
and  police  officials  mounted  up  to  arrest  us.  A  Black  Maria  waited  by 
the  railway  line,  and  Sherwani  and  I  were  taken  in  this  closed  pris 
oners'  van  away  to  Naini.  The  superintendent  of  police,  an  English 
man,  who  had  arrested  us  on  that  morning  of  Boxing  Day  looked 
glum  and  unhappy.  I  am  afraid  we  had  spoiled  his  Christmas. 

And  so  to  prison! 

Two  days  after  our  arrest  Gandhiji  landed  in  Bombay,  and  it  was 
only  then  that  he  learned  of  the  latest  developments.  Some  of  his 
closest  colleagues  in  the  Frontier  Province  and  the  United  Provinces 
had  been  arrested.  The  die  seemed  to  be  cast  and  all  hope  of  peace 
gone,  but  still  he  made  an  effort  to  find  a  way  out,  and  sought  an 
interview  with  the  Viceroy,  Lord  Willingdon,  for  the  purpose.  The 
interview,  he  was  informed  from  New  Delhi,  could  only  take  place 
on  certain  conditions — these  conditions  being  that  he  must  not  discuss 
recent  events  in  Bengal,  the  United  Provinces,  and  the  Frontier,  the 
new  ordinances,  and  the  arrests  under  them.  (I  write  from  memory, 
and  have  not  got  the  text  of  the  viceregal  reply  before  me.)  What 
exactly  Gandhiji  or  any  Congress  leader  was  officially  supposed  to  dis 
cuss  with  the  Viceroy,  apart  from  these  forbidden  subjects  which 
were  agitating  the  country,  passes  one's  comprehension.  It  was  abso 
lutely  clear  now  that  the  Government  of  India  had  determined  to 
crush  the  Congress  and  would  have  no  dealings  with  it.  The  Work 
ing  Committee  had  no  choice  left  but  to  resort  to  civil  disobedience. 
They  expected  arrest  at  any  moment,  and  they  wanted  to  give  a  lead 
to  the  country  before  their  enforced  departure.  Even  so,  the  civil  dis- 

214 


obedience  resolution  was  passed  tentatively,  and  another  attempt  was 
made  by  Gandhiji  to  see  the  Viceroy,  and  he  sent  him  a  second  tele 
gram  asking  for  an  unconditional  interview.  The  reply  of  the  Gov 
ernment  was  to  arrest  Gandhiji  as  well  as  the  Congress  president, 
and  to  press  the  button  which  was  to  let  loose  fierce  repression  all 
over  the  country.  It  was  clear  that  whoever  else  wanted  or  did  not 
want  the  struggle,  the  Government  was  eager  and  overready  for  it. 

We  were  in  jail,  of  course,  and  all  this  news  came  to  us  vaguely 
and  disjointedly.  Our  trial  was  postponed  to  the  New  Year,  and  so 
we  had,  as  undertrials,  more  interviews  than  a  convict  could  have. 
We  heard  of  the  great  discussion  that  was  going  on  as  to  whether 
the  Viceroy  should  or  should  not  have  agreed  to  the  interview,  as  if 
it  really  mattered  either  way.  This  question  of  the  interview  shad 
owed  all  other  matters.  It  was  stated  that  Lord  Irwin  would  have 
agreed  to  the  interview  and  if  he  and  Gandhiji  had  met  all  would 
have  been  well.  I  was  surprised  at  the  extraordinarily  superficial  view 
that  the  Indian  press  took  of  the  situation  and  how  they  ignored 
realities.  Was  the  inevitable  struggle  between  Indian  nationalism  and 
British  imperialism — in  the  final  analysis,  two  irreconcilables — to  be 
reduced  to  the  personal  whims  of  individuals?  Could  the  conflict  of 
two  historical  forces  be  removed  by  smiles  and  mutual  courtesy? 
Gandhiji  was  driven  to  act  in  one  way,  because  Indian  nationalism 
could  not  commit  hara-kiri  or  submit  willingly  to  foreign  dictation  in 
vital  matters;  the  British  Viceroy  of  India  had  to  act  in  a  particular 
way  to  meet  the  challenge  of  this  nationalism  and  to  endeavor  to 
protect  British  interest,  and  it  made  not  the  slightest  difference  who 
the  Viceroy  was  at  the  time.  Lord  Irwin  would  have  acted  exactly  as 
Lord  Willingdon  did,  for  either  of  them  was  but  the  instrument  of 
British  imperialist  policy  and  could  only  make  some  minor  devia 
tions  from  the  line  laid  down.  Lord  Irwin,  indeed,  was  subsequently 
a  member  of  the  British  Government,  and  he  associated  himself  fully 
with  the  official  steps  taken  in  India.  To  praise  or  condemn  individual 
Viceroys  for  British  policy  in  India  seems  to  me  a  singularly  inept 
thing  to  do,  and  our  habit  of  indulging  in  this  pastime  can  only  be 
due  to  an  ignorance  of  the  real  issues  or  to  a  deliberate  evasion  of 
them. 

January  4,  1932,  was  a  notable  day.  It  put  a  stop  to  argument  and 
discussion.  Early  that  morning  Gandhiji  and  the  Congress  president, 
Vallabhbhai  Patel,  were  arrested  and  confined  without  trial  as  State 
prisoners.  Four  new  ordinances  were  promulgated  giving  the  most 

215 


far-reaching  powers  to  magistrates  and  police  officers.  Civil  liberty 
ceased  to  exist,  and  both  person  and  property  could  be  seized  by  the 
authorities.  It  was  a  declaration  of  a  kind  of  state  of  siege  for  the 
whole  of  India,  the  extent  and  intensity  of  application  being  left  to 
the  discretion  of  the  local  authorities.1 

On  that  4th  of  January  also  our  trial  took  place  in  Naini  Prison 
under  the  United  Provinces  Emergency  Powers  Ordinance,  as  it  was 
called.  Sherwani  was  sentenced  to  six  months'  rigorous  imprisonment 
and  a  fine  of  one  hundred  and  fifty  rupees;  I  was  sentenced  to  two 
years'  rigorous  imprisonment  and  a  fine  of  five  hundred  rupees  (in 
default  six  months  more).  Our  offenses  were  identical;  we  had  been 
served  with  identical  orders  of  internment  in  Allahabad  city;  we  had 
committed  the  same  breach  of  them  by  attempting  to  go  together  to 
Bombay;  we  had  been  arrested  and  tried  together  under  the  same 
section,  and  yet  our  sentences  were  very  dissimilar.  There  was,  how 
ever,  one  difference:  I  had  written  to  the  district  magistrate  and  in 
formed  him  of  my  intention  to  go  to  Bombay  in  defiance  of  the 
order;  Sherwani  had  given  no  such  formal  notice,  but  his  proposed 
departure  was  equally  well  known,  and  had  been  mentioned  in  the 
press.  Immediately  after  the  sentence  Sherwani  asked  the  trying  mag 
istrate,  to  the  amusement  of  those  present  and  the  embarrassment  of 
the  magistrate,  if  his  smaller  sentence  was  due  to  communal  consid 
erations. 

Quite  a  lot  happened  on  that  fateful  day,  January  4,  all  over  the 
country.  Not  far  from  where  we  were,  in  Allahabad  city,  huge 
crowds  came  in  conflict  with  the  police  and  military,  and  there  were 
the  usual  lathee  charges  involving  deaths  and  other  casualties.  The 
jails  began  to  fill  with  civil  disobedience  prisoners.  To  begin  with, 
these  prisoners  went  to  the  district  jails,  and  Naini  and  the  other 
great  central  prisons  received  only  the  overflows.  Later,  all  the  jails 
filled  up,  and  huge  temporary  camp  jails  were  established. 

The  Congress  had  been  declared  illegal— the  Working  Committee 
at  the  top,  the  provincial  committees,  and  innumerable  local  commit 
tees.  Together  with  the  Congress  all  manner  of  allied  or  sympathetic 
or  advanced  organizations  had  been  declared  unlawful— \isan  sabhas 
and  peasant  unions,  youth  leagues,  students'  associations,  advanced 
political  organizations,  national  universities  and  schools,  hospitals, 

1  Sir  Samuel  Hoare,  Secretary  of  State  for  India,  stated  in  the  House  of  Commons  on 
March  24,  1932:  "I  admit  that  the  ordinances  that  we  have  approved  are  very  drastic 
and  severe.  They  cover  almost  every  activity  of  Indian  life." 

216 


Swadeshi  concerns,  libraries.  The  lists  were  indeed  formidable,  and 
contained  many  hundreds  of  names  for  each  major  province.  The  all- 
India  total  must  have  run  into  several  thousands,  and  this  very  num 
ber  of  outlawed  organizations  was  in  itself  a  tribute  to  the  Congress 
and  the  national  movement. 

My  wife  lay  in  Bombay,  ill  in  bed,  fretting  at  her  inability  to  take 
part  in  civil  disobedience.  My  mother  and  both  my  sisters  threw 
themselves  into  the  movement  with  vigor,  and  soon  both  the  sisters 
were  in  jail  with  a  sentence  of  a  year  each.  Odd  bits  of  news  used  to 
reach  us  through  newcomers  to  prison  or  through  the  local  weekly 
paper  that  we  were  permitted  to  read.  We  could  only  guess  much 
that  was  happening,  for  the  press  censorship  was  strict,  and  the  pros 
pect  of  heavy  penalties  always  faced  newspapers  and  news  agencies. 
In  some  provinces  it  was  an  offense  even  to  mention  the  name  of  a 
person  arrested  or  sentenced. 

So  we  sat  in  Naini  Prison  cut  off  from  the  strife  outside,  and  yet 
wrapped  up  in  it  in  a  hundred  ways;  busying  ourselves  with  spin 
ning  or  reading  or  other  activities,  talking  sometimes  of  other  mat 
ters,  but  thinking  always  of  what  was  happening  beyond  the  prison 
walls.  We  were  out  of  it,  and  yet  in  it.  Sometimes  the  strain  of  expec 
tation  was  very  great;  or  there  was  anger  at  something  wrongly 
done;  disgust  at  weakness  or  vulgarity.  At  other  times  we  were 
strangely  detached,  and  could  view  the  scene  calmly  and  dispassion 
ately  and  feel  that  petty  individual  errors  or  weaknesses  mattered 
little  when  vast  forces  were  at  play  and  the  mills  of  the  gods  were 
grinding.  We  would  wonder  what  the  morrow  would  bring  of  strife 
and  tumult,  and  gallant  enthusiasm  and  cruel  repression  and  hateful 
cowardice — and  what  was  all  this  leading  to?  Whither  were  we  go 
ing?  The  future  was  hid  from  us,  and  it  was  as  well  that  it  was 
hidden;  even  the  present  was  partly  covered  by  a  veil,  so  far  as  we 
were  concerned.  But  this  we  knew:  that  there  was  strife  and  suffering 
and  sacrifice  in  the  present  and  on  the  morrow. 


217 


XXXIII 

BALLYHOO 

THOSE  EARLY  MONTHS  of  1932  were  remarkable,  among  other  things, 
for  an  extraordinary  exhibition  o£  ballyhoo>  on  the  part  of  the  British 
authorities.  Officials,  high  and  low,  shouted  out  how  virtuous  and 
peaceful  they  were,  and  how  sinful  and  pugnacious  was  the  Congress. 
They  stood  for  democracy  while  the  Congress  favored  dictatorships. 
Was  not  its  president  called  a  dictator?  In  their  enthusiasm  for  a 
righteous  cause  they  forgot  trifles  like  ordinances,  and  suppression  of 
all  liberties,  and  muzzling  of  newspapers  and  presses,  imprisonment 
of  people  without  trial,  seizure  of  properties  and  moneys,  and  the 
many  other  odd  things  that  were  happening  from  day  to  day.  They 
forgot  also  the  basic  character  of  British  rule  in  India.  Ministers  of 
Government  (our  own  countrymen)   grew  eloquent  on  how  Con 
gressmen  were  "grinding  their  axes" — in  prison — while  they  labored 
for  the  public  good  on  paltry  salaries  of  a  few  thousand  rupees  per 
month.  The  lower  magistracy  not  only  sentenced  us  to  heavy  terms 
but  lectured  to  us  in  the  process,  and  sometimes  abused  the  Congress 
and  individuals  connected  with  it.  Even  Sir  Samuel  Hoare,  from  the 
serene  dignity  of  his  high  office  as  Secretary  of  State  for  India,  an 
nounced  that  "though  dogs  may  bark  the  caravan  passes  on."  Most  sur 
prising  of  all,  the  Cawnpore  Communal  Riots  were  laid  at  the  door  of 
the  Congress.  The  horrors  of  these  truly  horrible  riots  were  laid  bare, 
and  it  was  repeatedly  stated  that  the  Congress  was  responsible  for 
them.  As  it  happened,  the  Congress  had  played  the  only  decent  part  in 
them,  and  one  of  its  noblest  sons  lay  dead,  mourned  by  every  group 
and  community  in  Cawnpore.  No  doubt,  in  this  and  other  matters,  the 
truth  will  prevail  in  the  end,  but  sometimes  the  lie  has  a  long  start. 

It  was  all  very  natural,  I  suppose,  this  exhibition  of  a  hysterical  war 
mentality;  and  no  one  could  expect  truth  or  restraint  under  the  circum 
stances.  But  it  did  seem  to  go  beyond  expectation  and  was  surprising 
in  its  intensity  and  abandon.  It  was  some  indication  of  the  state  of 
nerves  of  the  ruling  group  in  India,  and  of  how  they  had  been  repress 
ing  themselves  in  the  past.  Probably  the  anger  was  not  caused  by  any 
thing  we  had  done  or  said,  but  by  the  realization  of  their  own  previous 
fear  of  losing  their  empire.  Rulers  who  are  confident  of  their  own 
strength  do  not  give  way  in  this  manner. 

It  was  evident  that  the  Government  had  long  prepared  its  blow,  and 

218 


it  wanted  it  to  be  as  thorough  and  staggering  as  possible  right  at  the 
beginning.  In  1930  it  was  always  attempting,  by  fresh  ordinances,  to 
catch  up  an  ever-worsening  situation.  The  initiative  remained  then 
with  Congress.  The  1932  methods  were  different,  and  Government 
began  with  an  offensive  all  along  the  line.  Every  conceivable  power 
was  given  and  taken  under  a  batch  of  all-India  and  provincial  ordi 
nances;  organizations  were  outlawed;  buildings,  property,  automobiles, 
bank  accounts  were  seized;  public  gatherings  and  processions  forbid 
den;  and  newspapers  and  printing  presses  fully  controlled.  India  lived 
practically  under  martial  law,  and  Congress  never  really  got  back  the 
initiative  or  any  freedom  of  action.  The  first  blows  stunned  it  and  most 
of  its  bourgeois  sympathizers  who  had  been  its  principal  supporters  in 
the  past.  Their  pockets  were  hit,  and  it  became  obvious  that  those  who 
joined  the  civil  disobedience  movement,  or  were  known  to  help  it  in 
any  way,  stood  to  lose  not  only  their  liberty,  but  perhaps  all  their 
property. 

I  do  not  think  any  Congressman  has  a  right  to  object  to  the  proce 
dure  adopted  by  the  Government,  although  the  violence  and  coercion 
used  by  the  Government  against  an  overwhelmingly  nonviolent  move 
ment  was  certainly  most  objectionable  from  any  civilized  standards.  If 
we  choose  to  adopt  revolutionary  direct-action  methods,  however  non 
violent  they  might  be,  we  must  expect  every  resistance.  We  cannot 
play  at  revolution  in  a  drawing  room,  but  many  people  want  to  have 
the  advantage  of  both.  For  a  person  to  dabble  in  revolutionary  meth 
ods,  he  must  be  prepared  to  lose  everything  he  possesses.  The  prosper 
ous  and  the  well-to-do  are  therefore  seldom  revolutionaries,  though 
individuals  may  play  the  fool  in  the  eyes  of  the  worldly  wise  and  be 
dubbed  traitors  to  their  own  class. 

The  new  environment  in  India  tolerated  no  neutral  hues,  and  so 
some  of  our  countrymen  appeared  in  the  brightest  of  approved  colors, 
and,  with  song  and  feasting,  they  declared  their  love  and  admiration 
for  our  rulers.  They  had  nothing  to  fear  from  the  ordinances  and  the 
numerous  prohibitions  and  inhibitions  and  curfew  orders  and  sunset 
laws;  for  had  it  not  been  officially  stated  that  all  this  was  meant  for 
the  disloyal  and  the  seditious,  and  the  loyal  need  have  no  cause  for 
alarm  ? 

The  Government  had  somehow  got  hold  of  the  idea  that  Congress 
was  going  to  exploit  women  in  the  struggle  by  filling  the  jails  with 
them,  in  the  hope  that  women  would  be  well  treated  or  would  get 
light  sentences.  It  was  a  fantastic  notion,  as  if  anyone  likes  to  push  his 

219 


womenfolk  into  prison.  Usually,  when  girls  or  women  took  an  active 
part  in  the  campaign,  it  was  in  spite  of  their  fathers  or  brothers  or 
husbands,  or  at  any  rate  not  with  their  full  co-operation.  Government, 
however,  decided  to  discourage  women  by  long  sentences  and  bad 
treatment  in  prison.  Soon  after  my  sisters'  arrest  and  conviction,  a 
number  of  young  girls,  mostly  15  or  16  years  old,  met  in  Allahabad  to 
discuss  what  they  could  do.  They  had  no  experience  but  were  full  of 
enthusiasm  and  wanted  advice.  They  were  arrested  as  they  were 
meeting  in  a  private  house,  and  each  of  them  was  sentenced  to  two 
years'  rigorous  imprisonment.  This  was  a  minor  incident,  one  of  many 
that  were  occurring  all  over  India  from  day  to  day.  Most  of  the  girls 
and  women  who  were  sentenced  had  a  very  bad  time  in  prison,  even 
worse  than  the  men  had.  I  heard  of  many  painful  instances,  but  the 
most  extraordinary  account  that  I  saw  was  one  prepared  by  Miraben 
(Madeleine  Slade)  giving  her  experiences,  together  with  those  of  other 
civil  disobedience  prisoners,  in  a  Bombay  jail. 

The  response  of  the  peasantry  in  some  of  the  principal  districts  of  the 
United  Provinces  to  the  call  for  civil  disobedience,  which  inevitably 
got  mixed  up  with  the  dispute  about  fair  rent  and  remissions,  was  very 
fine.  It  was  a  far  bigger  and  more  disciplined  response  than  in  1930. 
To  begin  with,  there  was  good  humor  about  it  too.  A  delightful  story 
came  to  us  of  a  visit  of  a  police  party  to  the  village  Bakulia  in  Rae 
Bareli  district.  They  had  gone  to  attach  goods  for  nonpayment  of  rent. 
The  village  was  relatively  prosperous,  and  its  residents  were  men  of 
some  spirit.  They  received  the  revenue  and  police  officials  with  all 
courtesy  and,  leaving  the  doors  of  all  the  houses  open,  invited  them  to 
go  wherever  they  wanted  to.  Some  attachments  of  catde,  etc.,  were 
made.  The  villages  then  offered  pan  supari  to  the  police  and  revenue 
officials,  who  retired  looking  very  small  and  rather  shamefaced!  But 
this  was  a  rare  and  unusual  occurrence,  and  very  soon  there  was  little 
of  humor  or  charity  or  human  kindness  to  be  seen.  Poor  Bakulia 
could  not  escape  punishment  for  its  spirit  because  of  its  humor. 

Swaraj  Bhawan  had  been  seized  by  the  Government,  in  common 
with  numerous  other  buildings  all  over  the  country.  All  the  valuable 
equipment  and  material  belonging  to  the  Congress  hospital,  which 
was  functioning  in  Swaraj  Bhawan,  was  also  seized.  For  a  few  days 
the  hospital  ceased  functioning  altogether,  but  then  an  open-air  dis 
pensary  was  established  in  a  park  near  by.  Later  the  hospital,  or  rather 
dispensary,  moved  to  a  small  house  adjoining  Swaraj  Bhawan,  and 
there  it  functioned  for  nearly  two  and  a  half  years. 

220 


There  was  some  talk  of  our  dwelling  house,  Anand  Bhawan,  also 
being  taken  possession  of  by  the  Government,  for  I  had  refused  to  pay 
a  large  amount  due  as  income  tax.  This  tax  had  been  assessed  on 
father's  income  in  1930.,  and  he  had  not  paid  it  that  year  because  of 
civil  disobedience.  In  1931,  after  the  Delhi  Pact,  I  had  an  argument 
with  the  income  tax  authorities  about  it,  but  ultimately  I  agreed  to 
pay  and  did  pay  an  installment.  Just  then  came  the  ordinances,  and  I 
decided  to  pay  no  more.  It  seemed  to  me  utterly  wrong,  and  even  im 
moral,  for  me  to  ask  the  peasants  to  withhold  payment  of  rent  and 
revenue  and  to  pay  income  tax  myself.  I  expected,  therefore,  that  our 
house  would  be  attached  by  the  Government.  I  disliked  this  idea  in 
tensely,  as  it  would  have  meant  my  mother  being  turned  out;  our 
books,  papers,  goods  and  chattels,  and  many  things  that  we  valued  for 
personal  and  sentimental  reasons  going  into  strange  hands  and  perhaps 
being  lost;  and  our  national  flag  being  pulled  down  and  the  Union 
Jack  put  up  instead.  At  the  same  time  I  was  attracted  to  the  idea  of 
losing  the  house.  I  felt  that  this  would  bring  me  nearer  to  the  peas 
antry,  who  were  being  dispossessed,  and  would  hearten  them.  From 
the  point  of  view  of  our  movement  it  was  certainly  a  desirable  thing. 
But  the  Government  decided  otherwise  and  did  not  touch  the  house, 
perhaps  because  of  consideration  for  my  mother,  perhaps  because  they 
judged  rightly  that  it  would  give  an  impetus  to  civil  disobedience. 
Many  months  afterward  some  odd  railway  shares  of  mine  were  dis 
covered  and  attached,  for  nonpayment  of  income  tax.  My  motorcar, 
as  well  as  my  brother-in-law's,  had  been  previously  attached  and  sold. 

One  feature  of  these  early  months  pained  me  greatly.  This  was  the 
hauling  down  of  our  national  flag  by  various  municipalities  and  public 
bodies,  and  especially  by  the  Calcutta  Corporation,  which  was  said  to 
have  a  majority  of  Congress  members.  The  flag  was  taken  down 
under  pressure  from  the  police  and  the  Government,  which  threat 
ened  severe  action  in  case  of  noncompliance.  This  action  would  have 
probably  meant  a  suspension  of  the  municipality  or  punishment  of  its 
members.  Organizations  with  vested  interests  are  apt  to  be  timid, 
and  perhaps  it  was  inevitable  that  they  should  act  as  they  did;  but 
nevertheless  it  hurt.  That  flag  had  become  a  symbol  to  us  of  much 
that  we  held  dear,  and  under  its  shadow  we  had  taken  many  a  pledge 
to  protect  its  honor.  To  pull  it  down  with  our  own  hands,  or  to  have 
it  pulled  down  at  our  behest,  seemed  not  only  a  breaking  of  that  pledge 
but  almost  a  sacrilege.  It  was  a  submission  of  the  spirit,  a  denial  of  the 
truth  in  one;  an  affirmation,  in  the  face  of  superior  physical  might,  of 

221 


the  false.  And  those  who  submitted  in  this  way  lowered  the  morale  of 
the  nation,  and  injured  its  self-respect. 

It  was  not  that  they  were  expected  to  behave  as  heroes  and  rush 
into  the  fire.  It  was  wrong  and  absurd  to  blame  anyone  for  not  being 
in  the  front  rank  and  courting  prison,  or  other  suffering  or  loss.  Each 
one  had  many  duties  and  responsibilities  to  shoulder,  and  no  one  else 
had  a  right  to  sit  in  judgment  on  him.  But  to  sit  or  work  in  the  back 
ground  is  one  thing;  to  deny  the  truth,  or  what  one  conceives  to  be 
the  truth,  is  a  more  serious  matter.  It  was  open  to  members  of  munici 
palities,  when  called  upon  to  do  anything  against  the  national  interest, 
to  resign  from  their  seats.  As  a  rule  they  preferred  to  remain  in  those 
seats.  No  one  knows  how  he  will  behave  in  a  similar  crisis  when  the 
primeval  instincts  overpower  reason  and  restraint.  So  we  may  not 
blame.  But  that  should  not  prevent  us  from  noting  that  falling  away 
from  right  conduct,  and  from  taking  care  in  future  that  the  steering 
wheel  of  the  ship  of  the  nation  is  not  put  in  hands  that  tremble  and 
fail  when  the  need  is  greatest.  Worse  still  is  the  attempt  to  justify  this 
failure  and  call  it  right  conduct.  That,  surely,  is  a  greater  ofiense  than 
the  failure  itself. 

The  months  went  by  bringing  their  daily  toll  of  good  news  and  bad, 
and  we  adapted  ourselves  in  our  respective  prisons,  to  our  dull  and 
monotonous  routine.  The  National  Week  came — April  6  to  13 — and 
we  knew  that  this  would  witness  many  an  unusual  happening.  Much, 
indeed,  happened  then;  but  for  me  everything  else  paled  before  one 
occurrence.  In  Allahabad  my  mother  was  in  a  procession  which  was 
stopped  by  the  police  and  later  charged  with  lathees.  When  the  proces 
sion  had  been  halted,  someone  brought  her  a  chair,  and  she  was  sitting 
on  this  on  the  road  at  the  head  of  the  procession.  Some  people  who 
were  especially  looking  after  her,  including  my  secretary,  were  arrested 
and  removed,  and  then  came  the  police  charge.  My  mother  was 
knocked  down  from  her  chair  and  was -hit  repeatedly  on  the  head  with 
canes.  Blood  came  out  of  an  open  wound  in  the  head;  she  fainted  and 
lay  on  the  roadside,  which  had  now  been  cleared  of  the  processionists 
and  public.  After  some  time  she  was  picked  up  and  brought  by  a  police 
officer  in  his  car  to  Anand  Bhawan. 

That  night  a  false  rumor  spread  in  Allahabad  that  my  mother  had 
died.  Angry  crowds  gathered  together,  forgot  about  peace  and  non 
violence,  and  attacked  the  police.  There  was  firing  by  the  police, 
resulting  in  the  death  of  some  people. 

When  the  news  of  all  this  came  to  me  some  days  after  the  occur- 

222 


rence  (for  we  had  a  weekly  paper),  the  thought  of  my  frail  old  mother 
lying  bleeding  on  the  dusty  road  obsessed  me,  and  I  wondered  how 
I  would  have  behaved  if  I  had  been  there.  How  far  would  my  non 
violence  have  carried  me?  Not  very  far,  I  fear,  for  that  sight  would 
have  made  me  forget  the  long  lesson  I  had  tried  to  learn  for  more  than 
a  dozen  years;  and  I  would  have  recked  little  of  the  consequences, 
personal  or  national. 

Slowly  she  recovered,  and,  when  she  came  to  see  me  next  month  in 
Bareilly  Jail,  she  was  still  bandaged  up.  But  she  was  full  of  joy  and 
pride  at  having  shared  with  our  volunteer  boys  and  girls  the  privilege 
of  receiving  cane  and  lathi  blows.  Her  recovery,  however,  was  more 
apparent  than  real,  and  it  seems  that  the  tremendous  shaking  that  she 
received  at  her  age  upset  her  system  entirely  and  brought  into  promi 
nence  deep-seated  troubles,  which  a  year  later  assumed  dangerous 
proportions. 


XXXIV 

IN  BAREILLY  AND  DEHRA  DUN  JAILS 

AFTER  six  WEEKS  in  Naini  Prison  I  was  transferred  to  the  Bareilly 
District  Jail.  I  was  again  keeping  indifferent  health,  and,  much  to 
my  annoyance,  I  used  to  get  a  daily  rise  in  temperature.  After  four 
months  spent  in  Bareilly,  when  the  summer  temperature  was  almost 
at  its  highest,  I  was  again  transferred,  this  time  to  a  cooler  place,  Dehra 
Dun  Jail,  at  the  foot  of  the  Himalayas.  There  I  remained,  without 
a  break,  for  fourteen  and  a  half  months,  almost  to  the  end  of  my  two- 
year  term.  News  reached  me,  of  course,  from  interviews  and  letters 
and  selected  newspapers,  but  I  was  wholly  out  of  touch  with  much 
that  was  happening  and  had  only  a  hazy  notion  of  the  principal  events. 

When  I  was  out  of  prison  for  five  months  I  was  kept  busy  with  per 
sonal  affairs  as  well  as  the  political  situation  as  I  found  it  then.  I  was 
back  in  prison  again.  For  three  years  I  have  been  mostly  in  prison  and 
out  of  touch  with  events,  and  I  have  had  litde  opportunity  of  making 
myself  acquainted  in  any  detail  with  all  that  has  happened  during  this 
period. 

Gradually,  the  civil  disobedience  movement  declined;  though  it  still 
carried  on,  not  without  distinction.  Progressively  it  ceased  to  be  a  mass 
movement.  Apart  from  the  severity  of  Government  repression,  the  first 

223 


severe  blow  to  it  came  in  September  1932,  when  Gandhiji  fasted  for 
the  first  time  on  the  Harijan  issue.1  That  fast  roused  mass  conscious 
ness,  but  it  diverted  it  from  the  main  political  issue.  Civil  disobedience 
was  finally  killed  for  all  practical  purposes  by  the  suspension  of  it  in 
May  1933.  It  continued  after  that  more  in  theory  than  in  practice.  It  is 
no  doubt  true  that,  even  without  that  suspension,  it  would  have  grad 
ually  petered  out.  India  was  numbed  by  the  violence  and  the  harsh 
ness  of  repression.  The  nervous  energy  of  the  nation  as  a  whole  was 
for  the  moment  exhausted,  and  it  was  not  being  recharged.  Individu 
ally  there  were  still  many  who  could  carry  on  civil  resistance,  but  they 
functioned  in  a  somewhat  artificial  atmosphere. 

It  was  not  pleasant  for  us  in  prison  to  learn  of  this  slow  decay  of  a 
great  movement.  And  yet  very  few  of  us  had  expected  a  flashing  suc 
cess.  There  was  always  an  odd  chance  that  something  flashing  might 
happen  if  there  was  an  irrepressible  upheaval  of  the  masses.  But  that 
was  not  to  be  counted  upon,  and  so  we  looked  forward  to  a  long 
struggle  with  ups  and  downs  and  many  a  stalemate  in  between,  and  a 
progressive  strengthening  of  the  masses  in  discipline  and  united  action 
and  ideology.  Sometimes  in  those  early  days  of  1932  I  almost  feared 
a  quick  and  spectacular  success,  for  this  seemed  to  lead  inevitably  to  a 
compromise  leaving  the  "Governmentarians"  and  opportunists  at  the 
top.  The  experience  of  1931  had  been  revealing.  Success  to  be  worth 
while  should  come  when  the  people  generally  were  strong  enough  and 
clear  enough  in  their  ideas  to  take  advantage  of  it.  Otherwise  the 
masses  would  fight  and  sacrifice,  and,  at  the  psychological  moment, 
others  would  step  in  gracefully  and  gather  the  spoils.  There  was  grave 
danger  of  this,  because  in  the  Congress  itself  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
loose  thinking  and  no  clear  ideas  as  to  what  system  of  government  or 
society  we  were  driving  at.  It  was  not  merely  a  question  of  civil  dis 
obedience  being  countered  and  suppressed  by  the  Government,  but  of 
all  political  life  and  public  activity  being  stopped,  and  hardly  a  voice 
was  raised  against  this.  Those  who  usually  stood  for  these  liberties 
were  involved  in  the  struggle  itself,  and  they  took  the  penalties  for 
refusing  to  submit  to  the  State's  coercion.  Others  were  cowed  into 
abject  submission  and  hardly  raised  their  voices  in  criticism.  Mild  criti 
cism,  when  it  was  indulged  in,  was  apologetic  in  tone  and  invariably 
accompanied  by  strong  denunciation  of  the  Congress  and  those  who 
were  carrying  on  the  struggle. 

The  Indian  Liberals  claim  to  some  extent  to  carry  on  the  traditions 

1  "Harijan"  is  Gandhi's  term  for  the  depressed  classes. — Ed. 

224 


of  British  Liberalism  (although  they  have  nothing  in  common  with 
them  except  the  name)  and  might  have  been  expected  to  put  up  some 
intellectual  opposition  to  the  suppression  o£  civil  liberties.  But  they 
played  no  such  part.  It  was  not  for  them  to  say  with  Voltaire:  "I  dis 
agree  absolutely  with  what  you  say,  but  I  will  defend  to  the  death 
your  right  to  say  it."  It  is  not  perhaps  fair  to  blame  them  for  this,  for 
they  have  never  stood  out  as  the  champions  of  democracy  or  liberty, 
and  they  had  to  face  a  situation  in  which  a  loose  word  might  have  got 
them  into  trouble.  It  is  more  pertinent  to  observe  the  reactions  of  those 
ancient  lovers  of  liberty,  the  British  Liberals,  and  the  new  socialists  of 
the  British  Labour  party  to  repression  in  India.  They  managed  to  con 
template  the  Indian  scene  with  a  certain  measure  of  equanimity,  pain 
ful  as  it  was,  and  sometimes  their  satisfaction  at  the  success  of  the 
"scientific  application  of  repression,"  as  a  correspondent  of  the  Man 
chester  Guardian  put  it,  was  evident.  When  the  National  Government 
of  Great  Britain  has  sought  to  pass  a  sedition  bill,  a  great  deal  of  criti 
cism  has  been  directed  to  it,  especially  from  Liberals  and  Labourites 
on  the  ground,  inter  alia,  that  it  restricts  free  speech  and  gives  magis 
trates  the  right  of  issuing  warrants  for  searches.  Whenever  I  read  this 
criticism,  I  sympathized  with  it,  and  I  had  at  the  same  time  the  picture 
of  India  before  me,  where  the  actual  laws  in  force  today  are  approxi 
mately  a  hundred  times  worse  than  the  British  sedition  bill  sought  to 
enact.  I  wondered  how  it  was  that  British  people  who  strain  at  a  gnat 
in  England  could  swallow  a  camel  in  India  without  turning  a  hair. 
Indeed  I  have  always  wondered  at  and  admired  the  astonishing  knack 
of  the  British  people  for  making  their  moral  standards  correspond  with 
their  material  interests,  and  for  seeing  virtue  in  everything  that  ad 
vances  their  imperial  designs.  Mussolini  and  Hitler  are  condemned  by 
them  in  perfect  good  faith  and  with  righteous  indignation  for  their 
attacks  on  liberty  and  democracy;  and,  in  equal  good  faith,  similar 
attacks  and  deprivation  of  liberty  in  India  seem  to  them  as  necessary, 
and  the  highest  moral  reasons  are  advanced  to  show  that  true  disin 
terested  behavior  on  their  part  demands  them. 

While  fire  raged  all  over  India,  and  men's  and  women's  souls  were 
put  to  the  test,  far  away  in  London  the  chosen  ones  foregathered  to 
draw  up  a  constitution  for  India  at  the  third  Round  Table  Conference 
in  1932. 

It  was  surprising  to  find  how  far  these  people  had  alienated  them 
selves,  not  only  in  their  day-to-day  lives,  but  morally  and  mentally, 
from  the  Indian  masses.  Reality  for  these  distinguished  statesmen  con- 

225 


sisted  of  one  thing— British  imperial  power,  which  could  not  be  suc 
cessfully  challenged  and  therefore  should  be  accepted  with  good  or 
bad  grace.  It  did  not  seem  to  strike  them  that  it  was  quite  impossible 
for  them  to  solve  India's  problem  or  draw  up  a  real  live  constitution 
without  the  good  will  of  the  masses. 

In  India  there  was  an  amazing  growth  of  the  spirit  of  violence  in 
official  circles.  An  inspector-general  of  prisons  went  to  the  length  of 
issuing  a  confidential  circular  to  all  the  prisons,  pointing  out  that  civil 
disobedience  prisoners  must  be  "dealt  with  grimly."2  Whipping  be 
came  a  frequent  jail  punishment.  On  April  27,  1933,  the  Under-Secre- 
tary  for  India  stated  in  the  House  of  Commons  "that  Sir  Samuel'  Hoare 
was  aware  that  over  500  persons  in  India  were  whipped  during  1932 
for  offenses  in  connection  with  the  civil  disobedience  movement."  It 
is  not  clear  if  this  figure  includes  the  many  whippings  in  prisons  for 
breaches  of  jail  discipline.  As  news  of  frequent  whippings  came  to  us 
in  prison  in  1932,  I  remembered  our  protest  and  our  three-day  fast  in 
December  1930  against  one  or  two  odd  instances  of  whipping.  I  had 
felt  shocked  then  at  the  brutality  of  it;  now  I  was  still  shocked,  and 
there  was  a  dull  pain  inside  me,  but  it  did  not  strike  me  that  I  should 
protest  and  fast  again.  I  felt  much  more  helpless  in  the  matter.  The 
mind  gets  blunted  to  brutality  after  a  while. 

The  hardest  of  labor  was  given  to  our  men  in  prison— mills,  oil 
presses,  etc. — and  their  lot  was  made  as  unbearable  as  possible  in  order 
to  induce  them  to  apologize  and  be  released  on  an  undertaking  being 
given  to  Government.  That  was  considered  a  great  triumph  for  the 
jail  authorities. 

Most  of  these  jail  punishments  fell  to  the  lot  of  boys  and  young 
men,  who  resented  coercion  and  humiliation.  A  fine  and  spirited  lot  of 
boys  they  were,  full  of  self-respect  and  "pep"  and  the  spirit  of  adven 
ture,  the  kind  that  in  an  English  public  school  or  university  would 
have  received  every  encouragement  and  praise.  Here  in  India  their 
youthful  idealism  and  pride  led  them  to  fetters  and  solitary  confine 
ment  and  whipping. 

The  lot  of  our  womenfolk  in  prison  was  especially  hard  and  painful 
to  contemplate.  They  were  mostly  middle-class  women,  accustomed  to 
a  sheltered  life,  and  suffering  chiefly  from  the  many  repressions  and 
customs  produced  by  a  society  dominated  to  his  own  advantage  by 

a This  circular  was  dated  June  30,  1932,  and  it  contained  the  following:  "The 
Inspector-General  impresses  upon  superintendents  and  jail  subordinates  the  fact  that 
there  is  no  justification  for  preferential  treatment  in  favor  of  civil  disobedience  movement 
prisoners  as  such.  This  class  require  to  be  kept  in  their  places  and  dealt  with  grimly." 

226 


man.  The  call  of  freedom  had  always  a  double  meaning  for  them,  and 
the  enthusiasm  and  energy  with  which  they  threw  themselves  into  the 
struggle  had  no  doubt  their  springs  in  the  vague  and  hardly  conscious, 
but  nevertheless  intense,  desire  to  rid  themselves  of  domestic  slavery 
also.  Excepting  a  very  few,  they  were  classed  as  ordinary  prisoners  and 
placed  with  the  most  degraded  of  companions,  and  often  under  horrid 
conditions.  I  was  once  lodged  in  a  barrack  next  to  a  female  enclosure, 
a  wall  separating  us.  In  that  enclosure  there  were,  besides  other  con 
victs,  some  women  political  prisoners,  including  one  who  had  been  my 
hostess  and  in  whose  house  I  had  once  stayed.  A  high  wall  separated 
us,  but  it  did  not  prevent  me  from  listening  in  horror  to  the  language 
and  curses  which  our  friends  had  to  put  up  with  from  the  women 
convict  warders. 

It  was  very  noticeable  that  the  treatment  of  political  prisoners  in 
1932  and  1933  was  worse  than  it  had  been  two  years  earlier,  in  1930. 
This  could  not  have  been  due  merely  to  the  whims  of  individual  offi 
cers,  and  the  only  reasonable  inference  seems  to  be  that  this  was  the 
deliberate  policy  of  the  Government,  Even  apart  from  political  prison 
ers,  the  United  Provinces  Jail  Department  had  had  the  reputation  in 
those  years  of  being  very  much  against  anything  that  might  savor  of 
humanity.3 


XXXV 
THE  STRUGGLE  OUTSIDE 

BRAVE  MEN  AND  women  defied  peacefully  a  powerful  and  entrenched 
government,  though  they  knew  that  it  was  not  for  them  to  achieve 
what  they  wanted  in  the  present  or  the  near  future.  And  repression 
without  break  and  with  ever-increasing  intensity  demonstrated  the 
basis  of  British  rule  in  India.  There  was  no  camouflage  about  it  now, 
and  this  at  least  was  some  satisfaction  to  us.  Bayonets  were  triumphant, 
but  a  great  warrior  had  once  said  that  "you  can  do  everything  with 
bayonets  save  sit  on  them."  It  was  better  that  we  should  be  governed 
thus,  we  thought,  than  that  we  should  sell  our  souls  and  submit  to 
spiritual  prostitution.  We  were  physically  helpless  in  prison,  but  we  felt 
we  served  our  cause  even  there  and  served  it  better  than  many  outside. 

8  In  the  original  edition  of  this  book,  the  chapters  numbered  I  and  II  in  the  present 
edition  followed  at  this  point. — Ed. 

227 


Should  we,  because  of  our  weakness,  sacrifice  the  future  of  India  to 
save  ourselves?  It  was  true  that  the  limits  of  human  vitality  and 
human  strength  were  narrow,  and  many  an  individual  was  physically 
disabled,  or  died,  or  fell  out  of  the  ranks,  or  even  betrayed  the  cause. 
But  the  cause  went  on  despite  setbacks;  there  could  be  no  failure  if 
ideals  remained  undimmed  and  spirits  undaunted.  Real  failure  was  a 
desertion  of  principle,  a  denial  of  our  right,  and  an  ignoble  submission 
to  wrong.  Self-made  wounds  always  took  longer  to  heal  than  those 
caused  by  an  adversary. 

There  was  often  a  weariness  at  our  weaknesses  and  at  a  world  gone 
awry,  and  yet  there  was  a  measure  of  pride  for  our  achievement.  For 
our  people  had  indeed  behaved  splendidly,  and  it  was  good  to  feel 
oneself  to  be  a  member  of  a  gallant  band. 

During  those  years  of  civil  disobedience  two  attempts  were  made 
to  hold  open  Congress  sessions,  one  at  Delhi  and  the  other  at  Cal 
cutta.  It  was  obvious  that  an  illegal  organization  could  not  meet  nor 
mally  and  in  peace,  and  any  attempt  at  an  open  session  meant  conflict 
with  the  police.  The  meetings  were  in  fact  dispersed  forcibly  with  the 
help  of  the  lathee  by  the  police,  and  large  numbers  of  people  were  ar 
rested.  The  extraordinary  thing  about  these  gatherings  was  the  fact 
that  thousands  came  from  all  parts  of  India  as  delegates  to  these  illegal 
gatherings.  I  was  glad  to  learn  that  people  from  the  United  Provinces 
played  a  prominent  part  in  both  of  them.  My  mother  also  insisted  on 
going  to  the  Calcutta  session  at  the  end  of  March  1933.  She  was  ar 
rested,  however,  together  with  Pandit  Malaviya  and  others,  and  de 
tained  in  prison  for  a  few  days  at  Asansol,  on  the  way  to  Calcutta.  I 
was  amazed  at  the  energy  and  vitality  she  showed,  frail  and  ailing  as 
she  was.  Prison  was  really  of  little  consequence  to  her;  she  had  gone 
through  a  harder  ordeal.  Her  son  and  both  her  daughters  and  others 
whom  she  loved  spent  long  periods  in  prison,  and  the  empty  house 
where  she  lived  had  become  a  nightmare  to  her. 

As  our  struggle  toned  down  and  stabilized  itself  at  a  low  level, 
there  was  little  of  excitement  in  it,  except  at  long  intervals.  My  thoughts 
traveled  more  to  other  countries,  and  I  watched  and  studied,  as  far  as 
I  could  in  jail,  the  world  situation  in  the  grip  of  the  great  depression. 
I  read  as  many  books  as  I  could  find  on  the  subject,  and  the  more  I 
read  the  more  fascinated  I  grew.  India  with  her  problems  and  strug 
gles  became  just  a  part  of  this  mighty  world  drama,  of  the  great 
struggle  of  political  and  economic  forces  that  was  going  on  every- 

228 


where,  nationally  and  internationally.  In  that  struggle  my  own  sympa 
thies  went  increasingly  toward  the  communist  side. 

I  had  long  been  drawn  to  socialism  and  communism,  and  Russia 
had  appealed  to  me.  Much  in  Soviet  Russia  I  dislike — the  ruthless 
suppression  of  all  contrary  opinion,  the  wholesale  regimentation,  the 
unnecessary  violence  (as  I  thought)  in  carrying  out  various  policies. 
But  there  was  no  lack  of  violence  and  suppression  in  the  capitalist 
world,  and  I  realized  more  and  more  how  the  very  basis  and  founda 
tion  of  our  acquisitive  society  and  property  was  violence,  Without 
violence  it  could  not  continue  for  many  days.  A  measure  of  political 
liberty  meant  little  indeed  when  the  fear  of  starvation  was  always  com 
pelling  the  vast  majority  of  people  everywhere  to  submit  to  the  will  of 
the  few,  to  the  greater  glory  and  advantage  of  the  latter. 

Violence  was  common  in  both  places,  but  the  violence  of  the  capi 
talist  order  seemed  inherent  in  it;  while  the  violence  of  Russia,  bad 
though  it  was,  aimed  at  a  new  order  based  on  peace  and  co-operation 
and  real  freedom  for  the  masses.  With  all  her  blunders,  Soviet  Russia 
had  triumphed  over  enormous  difficulties  and  taken  great  strides  to 
ward  this  new  order.  While  the  rest  of  the  world  was  in  the  grip  of  the 
depression  and  going  backward  in  some  ways,  in  the  Soviet  country 
a  great  new  world  was  being  built  up  before  our  eyes.  Russia,  follow 
ing  the  great  Lenin,  looked  into  the  future  and  thought  only  of  what 
was  to  be,  while  other  countries  lay  numbed  under  the  dead  hand  of 
the  past  and  spent  their  energy  in  preserving  the  useless  relics  of  a 
bygone  age.  In  particular,  I  was  impressed  by  the  reports  of  the  great 
progress  made  by  the  backward  regions  of  Central  Asia  under  the 
Soviet  regime.  In  the  balance,  therefore,  I  was  all  in  favor  of  Russia, 
and  the  presence  and  example  of  the  Soviets  was  a  bright  and  hearten 
ing  phenomenon  in  a  dark  and  dismal  world. 

But  Soviet  Russia's  success  or  failure,  vastly  important  as  it  was  as  a 
practical  experiment  in  establishing  a  communist  state,  did  not  affect 
the  soundness  of  the  theory  of  communism.  The  Bolsheviks  may  blun 
der  or  even  fail  because  of  national  or  international  reasons,  and  yet 
the  communist  theory  may  be  correct.  On  the  basis  of  that  very  theory 
it  was  absurd  to  copy  blindly  what  had  taken  place  in  Russia,  for  its 
application  depended  on  the  particular  conditions  prevailing  in  the 
country  in  question  and  the  stage  of  its  historical  development.  Be 
sides,  India,  or  any  other  country,  could  profit  by  the  triumphs  as  well 
as  the  inevitable  mistakes  of  the  Bolsheviks.  Perhaps  the  Bolsheviks 
had  tried  to  go  too  fast  because,  surrounded  as  they  were  by  a  world 

229 


of  enemies,  they  feared  external  aggression.  A  slower  tempo  might 
avoid  much  of  the  misery  caused  in  the  rural  areas.  But  then  the  ques 
tion  arose  if  really  radical  results  could  be  obtained  by  slowing  down 
the  rate  of  change.  Reformism  was  an  impossible  solution  of  any  vital 
problem  at  a  critical  moment  when  the  basic  structure  had  to  be 
changed,  and,  however  slow  the  progress  might  be  later  on,  the  initial 
step  must  be  a  complete  break  with  the  existing  order,  which  had  ful 
filled  its  purpose  and  was  now  only  a  drag  on  future  progress. 

In  India,  only  a  revolutionary  plan  could  solve  the  two  related  ques 
tions  of  the  land  and  industry  as  well  as  almost  every  other  major 
problem  before  the  country.  "There  is  no  graver  mistake,"  as  Mr. 
Lloyd  George  says  in  his  War  Memoirs,  "than  to  leap  the  abyss  in  two 
jumps." 

Russia  apart,  the  theory  and  philosophy  of  Marxism  lightened  up 
many  a  dark  corner  of  my  mind.  History  came  to  have  a  new  meaning 
for  me.  The  Marxist  interpretation  threw  a  flood  of  light  on  it,  and  it 
became  an  unfolding  drama  with  some  order  and  purpose,  howsoever 
unconscious,  behind  it.  In  spite  of  the  appalling  waste  and  misery  of 
the  past  and  the  present,  the  future  was  bright  with  hope,  though 
many  dangers  intervened.  It  was  the  essential  freedom  from  dogma 
and  the  scientific  outlook  of  Marxism  that  appealed  to  me.  It  was  true 
that  there  was  plenty  of  dogma  in  official  communism  in  Russia  and 
elsewhere,  and  frequently  heresy  hunts  were  organized.  That  seemed 
to  be  deplorable,  though  it  was  not  difficult  to  understand  in  view  of 
the  tremendous  changes  taking  place  rapidly  in  the  Soviet  countries 
when  effective  opposition  might  have  resulted  in  catastrophic  failure. 

The  great  world  crisis  and  slump  seemed  to  justify  the  Marxist 
analysis.  While  all  other  systems  and  theories  were  groping  about  in 
the  dark,  Marxism  alone  explained  it  more  or  less  satisfactorily  and 
offered  a  real  solution. 

As  this  conviction  grew  upon  me,  I  was  filled  with  a  new  excite 
ment,  and  my  depression  at  the  nonsuccess  of  civil  disobedience  grew 
much  less.  Was  not  the  world  marching  rapidly  toward  the  desired 
consummation?  There  were  grave  dangers  of  wars  and  catastrophes, 
but  at  any  rate  we  were  moving.  There  was  no  stagnation.  Our  na 
tional  struggle  became  a  stage  in  the  longer  journey,  and  it  was  as  well 
that  repression  and  suffering  were  tempering  our  people  for  future 
struggles  and  forcing  them  to  consider  the  new  ideas  that  were  stir 
ring  the  world.  We  would  be  the  stronger  and  the  more  disciplined 

230 


and  hardened  by  the  elimination  of  the  weaker  elements.  Time  was 
in  our  favor. 

And  so  I  studied  carefully  what  was  happening  in  Russia,  Germany, 
England,  America,  Japan,  China,  France,  Spain,  Italy,  and  Central 
Europe,  and  tried  to  understand  the  tangled  web  of  current  affairs.  I 
followed  with  interest  the  attempts  of  each  country  separately,  and  of 
all  of  them  together,  to  weather  the  storm.  The  repeated  failures  of 
international  conferences  to  find  a  solution  for  political  and  economic 
ills  and  the  problem  of  disarmament  reminded  me  forcibly  of  a  litde, 
but  sufficiently  troublesome,  problem  of  our  own— the  communal 
problem.  With  all  the  good  will  in  the  world,  we  have  so  far  not  solved 
the  problem;  and,  in  spite  of  a  widespread  belief  that  failure  would 
lead  to  world  catastrophe,  the  great  statesmen  of  Europe  and  America 
have  failed  to  pull  together.  In  either  case  the  approach  was  wrong,  and 
the  people  concerned  did  not  dare  to  go  the  right  way. 

In  thinking  over  the  troubles  and  conflicts  of  the  world,  I  forgot  to 
some  extent  my  own  personal  and  national  troubles.  I  would  even  feel 
buoyant  occasionally  at  the  fact  that  I  was  alive  at  this  great  revolu 
tionary  period  of  the  world's  history.  Perhaps  I  might  also  have  to  play 
some  little  part  in  my  own  corner  of  the  world  in  the  great  changes 
that  were  to  come.  At  other  times  I  would  find  the  atmosphere  of 
conflict  and  violence  all  over  the  world  very  depressing.  Worse  still 
was  the  sight  of  intelligent  men  and  women  who  had  become  so  accus 
tomed  to  human  degradation  and  slavery  that  their  minds  were  too 
coarsened  to  resent  suffering  and  poverty  and  inhumanity.  Noisy  vul 
garity  and  organized  humbug  flourished  in  this  stifling  moral  atmos 
phere,  and  good  men  were  silent.  The  triumph  of  Hitler  and  the 
Brown  Terror  that  followed  was  a  great  shock,  though  I  consoled 
myself  that  it  could  only  be  temporary.  Almost  one  had  the  feeling  of 
the  futility  of  human  endeavor.  The  machine  went  on  blindly;  what 
could  a  little  cog  in  it  do? 

But  still  the  communist  philosophy  of  life  gave  me  comfort  and 
hope.  How  was  it  to  be  applied  to  India  ?  We  had  not  solved  yet  the 
problem  of  political  freedom,  and  the  nationalistic  outlook  filled  our 
minds.  Were  we  to  jump  to  economic  freedom  at  the  same  time  or 
take  them  in  turn,  however  short  the  interval  might  be  ?  World  events 
as  well  as  happenings  in  India  were  forcing  the  social  issue  to  the 
front,  and  it  seemed  that  political  freedom  could  no  longer  be  sep 
arated  from  it. 

The  policy  of  the  British  Government  in  India  had  resulted  in  rang- 

231 


ing  the  socially  reactionary  classes  in  opposition  to  political  independ 
ence.  That  was  inevitable,  and  I  welcomed  the  clearer  demarcation  of 
the  various  classes  and  groups  in  India.  But  was  this  fact 'appreciated  by 
others  ?  Apparently  not  by  many.  It  was  true  that  there  were  a  handful 
of  orthodox  communists  in  some  of  the  big  cities,  and  they  were  hostile 
to,  and  bitterly  critical  of,  the  national  movement.  The  organized  la 
bor  movement,  especially  in  Bombay  and,  to  a  lesser  extent,  in  Cal 
cutta,  was  also  socialistic  in  a  loose  kind  of  way,  but  it  was  broken  up 
into  bits  and  suffering  from  the  depression.  Vague  communistic  and 
socialistic  ideas  had  spread  among  the  intelligentsia,  even  among  intel 
ligent  Government  officials.  The  younger  men  and  women  of  the 
Congress,  who  used  to  read  Bryce  on  democracies  and  Morley  and 
Keith  and  Mazzini,  were  now  reading,  when  they  could  get  them, 
books  on  socialism  and  communism  and  Russia.  The  Meerut  Con 
spiracy  Case  had  helped  greatly  in  directing  people's  minds  to  these 
new  ideas,  and  the  world  crisis  had  compelled  attention.  Everywhere 
there  was  in  evidence  a  new  spirit  of  inquiry,  a  questioning  and  a 
challenge  to  existing  institutions.  The  general  direction  of  the  mental 
wind  was  obvious,  but  still  it  was  a  gentle  breeze,  unsure  of  itself. 
Some  people  flirted  with  fascist  ideas.  A  clear  and  definite  ideology 
was  lacking.  Nationalism  still  was  the  dominating  thought. 

It  seemed  clear  to  me  that  nationalism  would  remain  the  outstand 
ing  urge,  till  some  measure  of  political  freedom  was  attained.  Because 
of  this  the  Congress  had  been,  and  was  still  (apart  from  certain  labor 
circles),  the  most  advanced  organization  in  India,  as  it  was  far  the 
most  powerful.  During  the  past  thirteen  years,  under  Gandhi ji's  lead 
ership,  it  had  produced  a  wonderful  awakening  of  the  masses,  and,  in 
spite  of  its  vague  bourgeois  ideology,  it  had  served  a  revolutionary 
purpose.  It  had  not  exhausted  its  utility  yet  and  was  not  likely  to  do  so 
till  the  nationalist  urge  gave  place  to  a  social  one.  Future  progress,  both 
ideological  and  in  action,  must  therefore  be  largely  associated  with  the 
Congress,  though  other  avenues  could  also  be  used. 

To  desert  the  Congress  seemed  to  me  thus  to  cut  oneself  adrift  from 
the  vital  urge  of  the  nation,  to  blunt  the  most  powerful  weapon  we 
had,  and  perhaps  to  waste  energy  in  ineffective  adventurism.  And  yet, 
was  the  Congress,  constituted  as  it  was,  ever  likely  to  adopt  a  really 
radical  social  solution  ?  If  such  an  issue  were  placed  before  it,  the  result 
was  bound  to  be  to  split  it  into  two  or  more  parts,  or  at  least  to  drive 
away  large  sections  from  it.  That  in  itself  was  not  undesirable  or  un 
welcome  if  the  issues  became  clearer  and  a  strongly  knit  group,  either 

232 


(Above)  Congress  volunteers  give  the  anti-fascist  salute  (Below)  Part  of 
the  huge  audience  at  a  1939  session  of  the  Indian  National  Congress 


.1  A 


I  nter  photo 


ill, 


Indian  bodyguard  before  the  British  governor's  palace  in  Bombay 


a  majority  or  minority  in  the  Congress,  stood  for  a  radical  social 
program. 

But  Congress  at  present  meant  Gandhiji.  What  would  he  do?  Ide 
ologically  he  was  sometimes  amazingly  backward,  and  yet  in  action  he 
had  been  the  greatest  revolutionary  of  recent  times  in  India.  He  was  a 
unique  personality,  and  it  was  impossible  to  judge  him  by  the  usual 
standards,  or  even  to  apply  the  ordinary  canons  of  logic  to  him.  But, 
because  he  was  a  revolutionary  at  bottom  and  was  pledged  to  political 
independence  for  India,  he  was  bound  to  play  an  uncompromising  role 
till  that  independence  was  achieved.  And  in  this  very  process  he  would 
release  tremendous  mass  energies  and  would  himself,  I  half  hoped,  ad 
vance  step  by  step  toward  the  social  goal. 

The  orthodox  communists  in  India  and  outside  have  for  many  years 
past  attacked  Gandhiji  and  the  Congress  bitterly,  and  imputed  all 
manner  of  base  motives  to  the  Congress  leaders.  Many  of  their  theo 
retical  criticisms  of  Congress  ideology  were  able  and  pointed,  and  sub 
sequent  events  partly  justified  them.  Some  of  the  earlier  communist 
analyses  of  the  general  Indian  political  situation  turned  out  to  be  re 
markably  correct.  But,  as  soon  as  they  leave  their  general  principles 
and  enter  into  details,  and  especially  when  they  consider  the  role  of 
the  Congress,  they  go  hopelessly  astray.  One  of  the  reasons  for  the 
weakness  in  numbers  as  well  as  influence  of  the  communists  in  India 
is  that,  instead  of  spreading  a  scientific  knowledge  of  communism  and 
trying  to  convert  people's  minds  to  it,  they  have  largely  concentrated 
on  abuse  of  others.  This  has  reacted  on  them  and  done  them  great 
injury.  Most  of  them  are  used  to  working  in  labor  areas,  where  a  few 
slogans  are  usually  enough  to  win  over  the  workers.  But  mere  slogans 
are  not  enough  for  the  intellectual,  and  they  have  not  realized  that  in 
India  today  the  middle-class  intellectual  is  the  most  revolutionary 
force.  Almost  in  spite  of  the  orthodox  communists,  many  intellectuals 
have  been  drawn  to  communism,  but  even  so  there  is  a  gulf  between 
them. 

According  to  the  communists,  the  objective  of  the  Congress  leaders 
has  been  to  bring  mass  pressure  on  the  Government  in  order  to  obtain 
industrial  and  commercial  concessions  in  the  interests  of  Indian  capital 
ists  and  zamindars.  The  task  of  the  Congress  is  "to  harness  the  eco 
nomic  and  political  discontent  of  the  peasantry,  the  lower  middle  class, 
and  the  industrial  working  class  to  the  chariot  of  the  mill  owners  and 
financiers  of  Bombay,  Ahmedabad,  and  Calcutta."  The  Indian  capital 
ists  are  supposed  to  sit  behind  the  scenes  and  issue  orders  to  the  Con- 

233 


gress  Working  Committee  first  to  organize  a  mass  movement  and, 
when  it  becomes  too  vast  and  dangerous,  to  suspend  it  or  sidetrack  it. 
Further,  that  the  Congress  leaders  really  do  not  want  the  British  to  go 
away,  as  they  are  required  to  control  and  exploit  a  starving  population, 
and  the  Indian  middle  class  do  not  feel  themselves  equal  to  this. 

It  is  surprising  that  able  communists  should  believe  this  fantastic 
analysis,  but,  believing  this  as  they  apparently  do,  it  is  not  surprising 
that  they  should  fail  so  remarkably  in  India.  Their  basic  error  seems  to 
be  that  they  judge  the  Indian  national  movement  from  European  la 
bor  standards;  and,  used  as  they  are  to  the  repeated  betrayals  of  the 
labor  movement  by  the  labor  leaders,  they  apply  the  analogy  to  India. 
The  Indian  national  movement  is  obviously  not  a  labor  or  proletarian 
movement.  It  is  a  bourgeois  movement,  as  its  very  name  implies,  and 
its  objective  so  far  has  been,  not  a  change  of  the  social  order,  but  politi 
cal  independence.  This  objective  may  be  criticized  as  not  far-reach 
ing  enough,  and  nationalism  itself  may  be  condemned  as  out  of  date. 
But,  accepting  the  fundamental  basis  of  the  movement,  it  is  absurd  to 
say  that  the  leaders  betray  the  masses  because  they  do  not  try  to  upset 
the  land  system  or  the  capitalist  system.  They  never  claimed  to  do  so. 
Some  people  in  the  Congress,  and  they  are  a  growing  number,  want 
to  change  the  land  system  and  the  capitalist  system,  but  they  cannot 
speak  in  the  name  of  the  Congress. 

It  is  true  that  the  Indian  capitalist  classes  (not  the  big  zamindars 
and  talukdars)  have  profited  greatly  by  the  national  movement  be 
cause  of  British  and  other  foreign  boycotts,  and  the  push  given  to 
Swadeshi.  This  was  inevitable,  as  every  national  movement  encourages 
home  industries  and  preaches  boycotts.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  Bombay 
mill  industry  in  a  body,  during  the  continuance  of  civil  disobedience 
and  when  we  were  preaching  the  boycott  of  British  goods,  had  the 
temerity  to  conclude  a  pact  with  Lancashire.  From  the  point  of  view 
of  the  Congress,  this  was  a  gross  betrayal  of  the  national  cause,  and  it 
was  characterized  as  such.  The  representative  of  the  Bombay  mill 
owners  in  the  Assembly  also  consistently  ran  down  the  Congress  and 
"extremists"  while  most  of  us  were  in  jail. 

The  part  that  many  capitalist  elements  have  played  in  India  during 
the  past  few  years  has  been  scandalous,  even  from  the  Congress  and 
nationalist  viewpoint.  As  for  the  big  zamindars  and  talukdars,  they 
ranged  themselves  completely  against  the  Congress  in  the  Round  Table 
Conference,  and  they  openly  and  aggressively  declared  themselves  on 
the  side  of  the  Government  right  through  civil  disobedience.  It  was 

234 


with  their  help  that  Government  passed  repressive  legislation  in  vari 
ous  provinces  embodying  the  ordinances.  And  in  the  United  Provinces 
Council  the  great  majority  of  the  zamindar  members  voted  against 
the  release  of  civil  disobedience  prisoners. 

The  idea  that  Gandhiji  was  forced  to  launch  seemingly  aggressive 
movements  in  1921  and  1930  because  of  mass  pressure,  is  also  abso 
lutely  wrong.  Mass  stirrings  there  were,  of  course,  but  on  both  occa 
sions  it  was  Gandhiji  who  forced  the  pace.  In  1921  he  carried  the 
Congress  almost  single-handed  and  plunged  it  into  nonco-operation. 
In  1930  it  would  have  been  quite  impossible  to  have  any  aggressive 
and  effective  direct  action  movement  if  he  had  resisted  it  in  any  way. 

It  is  very  unfortunate  that  foolish  and  ill-informed  criticisms  of  a 
personal  nature  are  made,  because  they  divert  attention  from  the  real 
issues.  To  attack  Gandhiji's  bona  fides  is  to  injure  oneself  and  one's 
own  cause,  for  to  the  millions  of  India  he  stands  as  the  embodiment  of 
truth,  and  anyone  who  knows  him  at  all  realizes  the  passionate  earnest 
ness  with  which  he  is  always  seeking  to  do  right. 

Communists  in  India  have  associated  with  the  industrial  workers  of 
the  big  towns.  They  have  little  knowledge  of,  or  contact  with,  the 
rural  areas.  The  industrial  workers,  important  as  they  are,  and  likely 
to  be  more  so  in  the  future,  must  take  second  place  before  the  peasants, 
for  the  problem  of  today  in  India  is  the  problem  of  the  peasantry. 
Congress  workers,  on  the  other  hand,  have  spread  all  over  these  rural 
areas,  and,  in  the  ordinary  course,  the  Congress  must  develop  into  a 
vast  peasant  organization.  Peasants  are  seldom  revolutionary  after  their 
immediate  objective  is  attained,  and  it  is  likely  that  sometime  in  the 
future  the  usual  problem  of  city  versus  village  and  industrial  worker 
versus  peasant  will  rise  in  India  also. 

It  has  been  my  privilege  to  be  associated  very  closely-  with  a  large 
number  of  Congress  leaders  and  workers,  and  I  could  not  wish  for  a 
finer  set  of  men  and  women.  And  yet  I  have  differed  from  them  on 
vital  issues,  and  often  I  have  felt  a  litde  weary  at  finding  that  they  do 
not  appreciate  or  understand  something  that  seems  to  me  quite  ob 
vious.  It  was  not  due  to  want  of  intelligence;  somehow  we  moved  in 
different  ideological  grooves.  I  realize  how  difficult  it  is  to  cross  these 
boundaries  suddenly.  They  constitute  different  philosophies  of  life, 
and  we  grow  into  them  gradually  and  unconsciously.  It  is  futile  to 
blame  the  other  party.  Socialism  involves  a  certain  psychological  out 
look  on  life  and  its  problems.  It  is  more  than  mere  logic.  So  also  are 
the  other  outlooks  based  on  heredity,  upbringing,  the  unseen  influ- 

235 


ences  of  the  past,  and  our  present  environments.  Only  life  itself  with 
its  bitter  lessons  forces  us  along  new  paths  and  ultimately,  which  is  far 
harder,  makes  us  think  differently.  Perhaps  we  may  help  a  little  in 
this  process.  And  perhaps 

On  rencontre  sa  destinee 

Souvent  par  les  chemlns  qon  prend  pour  I'eviter. 


XXXVI 

WHAT  IS  RELIGION? 

OUR  PEACEFUL  AND  monotonous  routine  in  jail  was  suddenly  upset  in 
the  middle  of  September  1932  by  a  bombshell  News  came  that  Gan 
dhi)  i  had  decided  to  "fast  unto  death"  in  disapproval  of  the  separate 
electorates  given  by  Mr.  Ramsay  MacDonald's  communal  award  to 
the  depressed  classes.1  What  a  capacity  he  had  to  give  shocks  to  peo 
ple!  Suddenly  all  manner  of  ideas  rushed  into  my  head;  all  kinds  of 
possibilities  and  contingencies  rose  up  before  me  and  upset  my  equili 
brium  completely.  For  two  days  I  was  in  darkness  with  no  light  to 
show  the  way  out,  my  heart  sinking  when  I  thought  of  some  results 
of  Gandhiji's  action.  The  personal  aspect  was  powerful  enough,  and 
I  thought  with  anguish  that  I  might  not  see  him  again.  It  was  over 
a  year  ago  that  I  had  seen  him  last  on  board  ship  on  the  way  to  Eng 
land.  Was  that  going  to  be  my  last  sight  of  him? 

And  then  I  felt  annoyed  with  him  for  choosing  a  side  issue  for  his 
final  sacrifice.  What  would  be  the  result  on  our  freedom  movement? 
Would  not  the  larger  issues  fade  into  the  background,  for  the  time 
being  at  least?  And,  if  he  attained  his  immediate  object  and  got  a  joint 
electorate  for  the  depressed  classes,  would  not  that  result  in  a  reaction 
and  a  feeling  that  something  had  been  achieved  and  nothing  more 
need  be  done  for  a  while?  And  was  not  his  action  a  recognition,  and 
in  part  an  acceptance,  of  the  communal  award  and  the  general  scheme 
of  things  as  sponsored  by  the  Government?  Was  this  consistent  with 
nonco-operation  and  civil  disobedience?  After  so  much  sacrifice  and 

1 A  provisional  decree  determining  the  degree  o£  representation  to  be  held  by  various 
Indian  groups  in  the  provincial  assemblies.  It  was  opposed  for  many  reasons  by  Indian 
nationalists,  and  by  Gandhi  particularly,  because  it  established  a  separate  electorate  for 
the  depressed  classes  and  thus,  in  his  view,  widened  the  cleavage  between  these  classes 
and  other  Hindus. — Ed. 

236 


brave  endeavor,  was  our  movement  to  tail  off  into  something  insig 
nificant? 

I  felt  angry  with  him  at  his  religious  and  sentimental  approach  to 
a  political  question,  and  his  frequent  references  to  God  in  connection 
with  it.  He  even  seemed  to  suggest  that  God  had  indicated  the  very 
date  of  the  fast.  What  a  terrible  example  to  set! 

If  Bapu  died!  What  would  India  be  like  then?  And  how  would  her 
politics  run?  There  seemed  to  be  a  dreary  and  dismal  future  ahead, 
and  despair  seized  my  heart  when  I  thought  of  it. 

So  I  thought  and  thought,  while  confusion  reigned  in  my  head,  with 
anger  and  hopelessness,  and  love  for  him  who  was  the  cause  of  this 
upheaval.  I  hardly  knew  what  to  do,  and  I  was  irritable  and  short- 
tempered  with  everybody,  most  of  all  with  myself. 

And  then  a  strange  thing  happened  to  me.  I  had  quite  an  emotional 
crisis,  and  at  the  end  of  it  I  felt  calmer,  and  the  future  seemed  not  so 
dark.  Bapu  had  a  curious  knack  of  doing  the  right  thing  at  the  psy 
chological  moment,  and  it  might  be  that  his  action — impossible  to 
justify  as  it  was  from  my  point  of  view — would  lead,  to  great  results, 
not  only  in  the  narrow  field  in  which  it  was  confined,  but  in  the  wider 
aspects  of  our  national  struggle.  And,  even  if  Bapu  died,  our  struggle 
for  freedom  would  go  on.  So  whatever  happened,  one  had  to  keep 
ready  and  fit  for  it.  Having  made  up  my  mind  to  face  even  Gandhiji's 
death  without  flinching,  I  felt  calm  and  collected  and  ready  to  face 
the^  world  and  all  it  might  offer. 

Then  came  news  of  the  tremendous  upheaval  all  over  the  country, 
a  magic  wave  of  enthusiasm  running  through  Hindu  society,  and  un- 
touchability  appeared  to  be  doomed.  What  a  magician,  I  thought,  was 
this  little  man  sitting  in  Yeravda  Prison,  and  how  well  he  knew  how 
to  pull  the  strings  that  move  people's  hearts! 

A  telegram  from  him  reached  me.  It  was  the  first  message  I  had 
received  from  him  since  my  conviction,  and  it  did  me  good  to  hear 
from  him  after  that  long  interval.  In  this  telegram  he  said: 

During  all  these  days  of  agony  you  have  been  before  mind's  eye. 
I  am  most  anxious  to  know  your  opinion.  You  know  how  I  value 
your  opinion.  Saw  Indu  [and]  Sarup's  children.  Indu  looked 
happy  and  in  possession  of  more  flesh.  Doing  very  well.  Wire 
reply.  Love. 

It  was  extraordinary,  and  yet  it  was  characteristic  of  him,  that  in  the 
agony  of  his  fast  and  in  the  midst  of  his  many  preoccupations,  he 

237 


should  refer  to  the  visit  of  my  daughter  and  my  sister's  children  to 
him,  and  even  mention  that  Indira  had  put  on  flesh!  (My  sister  was 
also  in  prison  then  and  all  these  children  were  at  school  in  Poona.) 
He  never  forgets  the  seemingly  little  things  in  life  which  really  mean 
so  much. 

News  also  came  to  me  just  then  that  some  settlement  had  been 
reached  over  the  electorate  issue.  The  superintendent  of  the  jail  was 
good  enough  to  allow  me  to  send  an  answer  to  Gandhiji,  and  I  sent 
him  the  following  telegram: 

Your  telegram  and  brief  news  that  some  settlement  reached 
filled  me  with  relief  and  joy.  First  news  of  your  decision  to  fast 
caused  mental  agony  and  confusion,  but  ultimately  optimism  tri 
umphed  and  I  regained  peace  of  mind.  No  sacrifice  too  great  for 
suppressed  downtrodden  classes.  Freedom  must  be  judged  by 
freedom  of  lowest  but  feel  danger  of  other  issues  obscuring  only 
goal.  Am  unable  to  judge  from  religious  viewpoint.  Danger  your 
methods  being  exploited  by  others  but  how  can  I  presume  to  ad 
vise  a  magician.  Love. 

A  "pact"  was  signed  by  various  people  gathered  in  Poona;  with  un 
usual  speed  the  British  Prime  Minister  accepted  it  and  varied  his  pre 
vious  award  accordingly,  and  the  fast  was  broken.  I  disliked  such  pacts 
and  agreements  greatly,  but  I  welcomed  the  Poona  Pact  apart  from  its 
contents. 

The  excitement  was  over,  and  we  reverted  to  our  jail  routine.  News 
of  the  Harijan  movement  and  of  Gandhiji's  activities  from  prison  came 
to  us,  and  I  was  not  very  happy  about  it.  There  was  no  doubt  that  a 
tremendous  push  had  been  given  to  the  movement  to  end  untouch- 
ability  and  raise  the  unhappy  depressed  classes,  not  so  much  by  the 
pact  as  by  the  crusading  enthusiasm  created  all  over  the  country.  That 
was  to  be  welcomed.  But  it  was  equally  obvious  that  civil  disobedience 
had  suffered.  The  country's  attention  had  been  diverted  to  other  issues, 
and  many  Congress  workers  had  turned  to  the  Harijan  cause.  Probably 
most  of  these  people  wanted  an  excuse  to  revert  to  safer  activities  which 
did  not  involve  the  risk  of  jail-going  or,  worse  still,  lathee  blows  and 
confiscations  of  property.  That  was  natural,  and  it  was  not  fair  to  ex 
pect  all  the  thousands  of  our  workers  to  keep  always  ready  for  intense 
suffering  and  the  break-up  and  destruction  of  their  homes.  But  still  it 
was  painful  to  watch  this  slow  decay  of  our  great  movement.  Civil  dis 
obedience  was,  however,  still  going  on,  and  occasionally  there  were 

238 


mass  demonstrations  like  the  Calcutta  Congress  in  March-April  1933. 
Gandhiji  was  in  Yeravda  Prison,  but  he  had  been  given  certain  privi 
leges  to  meet  people  and  issue  directions  for  the  Harijan  movements. 
Somehow  this  took  away  from  the  sting  of  his  being  in  prison.  All  this 
depressed  me. 

Many  months  later,  early  in  May  1933,  Gandhiji  began  his  twenty- 
one-day  fast.  The  first  news  of  this  had  again  come  as  a  shock  to  me, 
but  I  accepted  it  as  an  inevitable  occurrence  and  schooled  myself  to  it. 
Indeed  I  was  irritated  that  people  should  urge  him  to  give  it  up,  after 
he  had  made  up  his  mind  and  declared  it  to  the  public.  For  me  the 
fast  was  an  incomprehensible  thing,  and,  if  I  had  been  asked  before 
the  decision  had  been  taken,  I  would  certainly  have  spoken  strongly 
against  it.  But  I  attached  great  value  to  Gandhi ji's  word,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  wrong  for  anyone  to  try  to  make  him  break  it,  in  a  personal  mat 
ter  which,  to  him,  was  of  supreme  importance.  So,  unhappy  as  I  was, 
I  put  up  with  it. 

A  few  days  before  beginning  his  fast  he  wrote  to  me,  a  typical  letter 
which  moved  me  very  much.  As  he  asked  for  a  reply  I  sent  him  the 
following  telegram: 

Your  letter.  What  can  I  say  about  matters  I  do  not  understand? 
I  feel  lost  in  strange  country  where  you  are  the  only  familiar  land 
mark  and  I  try  to  grope  my  way  in  dark  but  I  stumble.  Whatever 
happens  my  love  and  thoughts  will  be  with  you. 

I  had  struggled  against  my  utter  disapproval  of  his  act  and  my  de 
sire  not  to  hurt  him.  I  felt,  however,  that  I  had  not  sent  him  a  cheerful 
message,  and  now  that  he  was  bent  on  undergoing  his  terrible  ordeal, 
which  might  even  end  in  his  death,  I  ought  to  cheer  him  up  as  much 
as  I  could.  Little  things  make  a  difference  psychologically,  and  he 
would  have  to  strain  every  nerve  to  survive.  I  felt  also  that  we  should 
accept  whatever  happened,  even  his  death,  if  unhappily  it  should  occur, 
with  a  stout  heart.  So  I  sent  him  another  telegram: 

Now  that  you  are  launched  on  your  great  enterprise  may  I  send 
you  again  love  and  greetings  and  assure  you  that  I  feel  more  clearly 
now  that  whatever  happens  it  is  well  and  whatever  happens  you 
win. 

He  survived  the  fast.  On  the  first  day  of  it  he  was  discharged  from 
prison,  and  on  his  advice  civil  disobedience  was  suspended  for  six 
weeks. 

239 


Again  I  watched  the  emotional  upheaval  of  the  country  during  the 
fast,  and  I  wondered  more  and  more  if  this  was  the  right  method  in 
politics.  It  seemed  to  be  sheer  revivalism,  and  clear  thinking  had  not 
a  ghost  of  a  chance  against  it.  All  India,  or  most  of  it,  stared  reverently 
at  the  Mahatma  and  expected  him  to  perform  miracle  after  miracle 
and  put  an  end  to  untouchability  and  get  Swaraj  and  so  on — and  did 
precious  little  itself!  And  Gandhi ji  did  not  encourage  others  to  think; 
his  insistence  was  only  on  purity  and  sacrifice.  I  felt  that  I  was  drifting 
further  and  further  away  from  him  mentally,  in  spite  of  my  strong 
emotional  attachment  to  him.  Often  enough  he  was  guided  in  his  polit 
ical  activities  by  an  unerring  instinct.  He  had  the  flair  for  action,  but 
was  the  way  of  faith  the  right  way  to  train  a  nation  ?  It  might  pay  for 
a  short  while,  but  in  the  long  run  ? 

And  I  could  not  understand  how  he  could  accept,  as  he  seemed  to 
do,  the  present  social  order,  which  was  based  on  violence  and  conflict. 
Within  me  also  conflict  raged,  and  I  was  torn  between  rival  loyalties. 
I  knew  that  there  was  trouble  ahead  for  me,  when  the  enforced  pro 
tection  of  jail  was  removed.  I  felt  lonely  and  homeless;  and  India,  to 
whom  I  had  given  my  love  and  for  whom  I  had  labored,  seemed  a 
strange  and  bewildering  land  to  me.  Was  it  my  fault  that  I  could  not 
enter  into  the  spirit  and  ways  of  thinking  of  my  countrymen?  Even 
with  my  closest  associates  I  felt  that  an  invisible  barrier  came  between 
us,  and,  unhappy  at  being  unable  to  overcome  it,  I  shrank  back  into 
my  shell.  The  old  world  seemed  to  envelop  them,  the  old  world  of 
past  ideologies,  hopes,  and  desires.  The  new  world  was  yet  far  distant. 

Wandering  between  two  worlds,  one  dead, 

The  other  powerless  to  be  born, 
With  nowhere  yet  to  rest  his  head. 

India  is  supposed  to  be  a  religious  country  above  everything  else; 
Hindu,  Moslem,  Sikh,  and  others  take  pride  in  their  faiths  and  testify 
to  their  truth  by  breaking  heads.  The  spectacle  of  what  is  called  re 
ligion,  or  at  any  rate  organized  religion,  in  India  and  elsewhere  has 
filled  me  with  horror,  and  I  have  frequently  condemned  it  and  wished 
to  make  a  clean  sweep  of  it.  Almost  always  it  seems  to  stand  for  blind 
belief  and  reaction,  dogma  and  bigotry,  superstition  and  exploitation, 
and  the  preservation  of  vested  interests.  And  yet  I  knew  well  that 
there  was  something  else  in  it,  something  which  supplied  a  deep  inner 
craving  of  human  beings.  How  else  could  it  have  been  the  tremen 
dous  power  it  has  been  and  brought  peace  and  comfort  to  innumerable 

240 


tortured  souls?  Was  that  peace  merely  the  shelter  of  blind  belief  and 
absence  of  questioning,  the  calm  that  comes  from  being  safe  in  harbor, 
protected  from  the  storms  of  the  open  sea,  or  was  it  something  more  ? 
In  some  cases  certainly  it  was  something  more. 

But  organized  religion,  whatever  its  past  may  have  been,  today  is 
very  largely  an  empty  form  devoid  of  real  content.  It  has  been  filled 
up  by  some  totally  different  substance.  And,  even  where  something  of 
value  still  remains,  it  is  enveloped  by  other  and  harmful  contents. 

That  seems  to  have  happened  in  our  Eastern  religions  as  well  as  in 
the  Western.  The  Church  of  England  is  perhaps  the  most  obvious  ex 
ample  of  a  religion  which  is  not  a  religion  in  any  real  sense  of  the 
word.  Partly  that  applies  to  all  organized  Protestantism,  but  the  Church 
of  England  has  probably  gone  further  because  it  has  long  been  a  State 
political  department.2 

Many  of  its  votaries  are  undoubtedly  of  the  highest  character,  but 
it  is  remarkable  how  that  Church  has  served  the  purposes  of  British 
imperialism  and  given  both  capitalism  and  imperialism  a  moral  and 
Christian  covering.  It  has  sought  to  justify,  from  the  highest  ethical 
standards,  British  predatory  policy  in  Asia  and  Africa  and  given  that 
extraordinary  and  enviable  feeling  of  being  always  in  the  right  to  the 
English.  Whether  the  Church  has  helped  in  producing  this  attitude  of 
smug  rectitude  or  is  itself  a  product  of  it,  I  do  not  know.  Other  less 
favored  countries  on  the  continent  of  Europe  and  in  America  often 
accuse  the  English  of  hypocrisy — perfide  Albion  is  an  old  taunt — but 
the  accusation  is  probably  the  outcome  of  envy  at  British  success,  and 
certainly  no  other  imperialist  Power  can  afford  to  throw  stones  at  Eng 
land,  for  its  own  record  is  equally  shady.  No  nation  that  is  consciously 
hypocritical  could  have  the  reserves  of  strength  that  the  British  have 
repeatedly  shown,  and  the  brand  of  "religion"  which  they  have  adopted 
has  apparently  helped  them  in  this  by  blunting  their  moral  susceptibili 
ties  where  their  own  interests  were  concerned.  Other  peoples  and  na 
tions  have  often  behaved  far  worse  than  the  British  have  done,  but 
they  have  never  succeeded,  quite  to  the  same  extent,  in  making  a 
virtue  of  what  profited  them.  All  of  us  find  it  remarkably  easy  to  spot 
the  mote  in  the  other's  eye  and  overlook  the  beam  in  our  own,  but 
perhaps  the  British  excel  at  this  performance. 

Protestantism  tried  to  adapt  itself  to  new  conditions  and  wanted  to 

2  In  India  the  Church  o£  England  has  been  almost  indistinguishable  from  the  Govern 
ment.  The  officially  paid  (out  of  Indian  revenues)  priests  and  chaplains  are  the  symbols 
of  the  imperial  power  just  as  the  higher  services  are. 

241 


have  the  best  of  both  worlds.  It  succeeded  remarkably  so  far  as  this 
world  was  concerned,,  but  from  the  religious  point  of  view  it  fell,  as 
an  organized  religion,  between  two  stools,  and  religion  gradually  gave 
place  to  sentimentality  and  big  business.  Roman  Catholicism  escaped 
this  fate,  as  it  stuck  on  to  the  old  stool,  and,  so  long  as  that  stool  holds, 
it  will  flourish.  Today  it  seems  to  be  the  only  living  religion,  in  the 
restricted  sense  of  the  word,  in  the  West.  A  Roman  Catholic  friend 
sent  me  in  prison  many  books  on  Catholicism  and  papal  encyclicals, 
and  I  read  them  with  interest.  Studying  them,  I  realized  the  hold  it 
had  on  such  large  numbers  of  people.  It  offered,  as  Islam  and  popular 
Hinduism  offer,  a  safe  anchorage  from  doubt  and  mental  conflict,  an 
assurance  of  a  future  life  which  will  make  up  for  the  deficiencies  of 
this  life. 

I  am  afraid  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  seek  harborage  in  this  way.  I 
prefer  the  open  sea,  with  all  its  storms  and  tempests.  Nor  am  I  greatly 
interested  in  the  afterlife,  in  what  happens  after  death.  I  find  the  prob 
lems  of  this  life  sufficiently  absorbing  to  fill  my  mind.  The  traditional 
Chinese  outlook,  fundamentally  ethical  and  yet  irreligious  or  tinged 
with  religious  skepticism,  has  an  appeal  for  me,  though  in  its  applica 
tion  to  life  I  may  not  agree.  It  is  the  Tao,  the  path  to  be  followed  and 
the  way  of  life,  that  interests  me;  how  to  understand  life,  not  to  reject 
it  but  to  accept  it,  to  conform  to  it,  and  to  improve  it.  But  the  usual 
religious  outlook  does  not  concern  itself  with  this  world.  It  seems  to 
me  to  be  the  enemy  of  clear  thought,  for  it  is  based  not  only  on  the 
acceptance  without  demur  of  certain  fixed  and  unalterable  theories  and 
dogmas,  but  also  on  sentiment  and  emotion  and  passion.  It  is  far  re 
moved  from  what  I  consider  spirituality  and  things  of  the  spirit,  and  it 
deliberately  or  unconsciously  shuts  its  eyes  to  reality  lest  reality  may 
not  fit  in  with  preconceived  notions.  It  is  narrow  and  intolerant  of 
other  opinions  and  ideas;  it  is  self-centered  and  egotistic;  and  it  often 
allows  itself  to  be  exploited  by  self-seekers  and  opportunists. 

This  does  not  mean  that  men  of  religion  have  not  been  and  are  not 
still  often  of  the  highest  moral  and  spiritual  type.  But  it  does  mean  that 
the  religious  outlook  does  not  help,  and  even  hinders,  the  moral  and 
spiritual  progress  of  a  people,  if  morality  and  spirituality  are  to  be 
judged  by  this  world's  standards,  and  not  by  the  hereafter.  Usually 
religion  becomes  an  asocial  quest  for  God  or  the  Absolute,  and  the 
religious  man  is  concerned  far  more  with  his  own  salvation  than  with 
the  good  of  society.  The  mystic  tries  to  rid  himself  of  self,  and  in  the 
process  usually  becomes  obsessed  with  it.  Moral  standards  have  no 

242 


relation  to  social  needs  but  are  based  on  a  highly  metaphysical  doctrine 
of  sin.  And  organized  religion  invariably  becomes  a  vested  interest  and 
thus  inevitably  a  reactionary  force  opposing  change  and  progress. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  Christian  church  in  the  early  days  did  not 
help  the  slaves  to  improve  their  social  status.  The  slaves  became  the 
feudal  serfs  of  the  Middle  Ages  of  Europe  because  of  economic  condi 
tions.  The  attitude  of  the  Church,  as  late  as  two  hundred  years  ago 
(in  1727)3  was  well  exemplified  in  a  letter  written  by  the  Bishop  of 
London  to  the  slave  owners  of  the  southern  colonies  of  America.3 

"Christianity,"  wrote  the  Bishop,  "and  the  embracing  of  the  gospel 
does  not  make  the  least  alteration  in  Civil  property  or  in  any  of  the 
duties  which  belong  to  civil  relations;  but  in  all  these  respects  it  con 
tinues  Persons  just  in  the  same  State  as  it  found  them.  The  Freedom 
which  Christianity  gives  is  Freedom  from  the  bondage  of  Sin  and 
Satan  and  from  the  Dominion  of  Men's  Lusts  and  Passions  and  in 
ordinate  Desires;  but  as  to  their  outward  condition,  whatever  that  was 
before,  whether  bond  or  free,  their  being  baptised  and  becoming  Chris 
tians  makes  no  manner  of  change  in  them." 

No  organized  religion  today  will  express  itself  in  this  outspoken 
manner,  but  essentially  its  attitude  to  property  and  the  existing  social 
order  will  be  the  same. 

"No  man  can  live  without  religion,"  Gandhiji  has  written  some 
where.  "There  are  some  who  in  the  egotism  of  their  reason  declare 
that  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  religion.  But  that  is  like  a  man  say 
ing  that  he  breathes,  but  that  he  has  no  nose."  Again  he  says:  "My 
devotion  to  truth  has  drawn  me  into  the  field  of  politics;  and  I  can  say 
without  the  slightest  hesitation,  and  yet  in  all  humility,  that  those  who 
say  that  religion  has  nothing  to  do  with  politics  do  not  know  what 
religion  means."  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  more  correct  if  he  had 
said  that  most  of  these  people  who  want  to  exclude  religion  from  life 
and  politics  mean  by  that  word  "religion"  something  very  different 
from  what  he  means.  It  is  obvious  that  he  is  using  it  in  a  sense — prob 
ably  moral  and  ethical  more  than  any  other — different  from  that  of 
the  critics  of  religion. 

8  This  letter  is  quoted  in  Reinhold  Niebuhr's  Moral  Man  and  Immoral  Society  (p.  78), 
a  book  which  is  exceedingly  interesting  and  stimulating. 


243 


XXXVII 

THE  "DUAL  POLICY"  OF  THE  BRITISH 
GOVERNMENT 

THE  HARIJAN  MOVEMENT  was  going  on,  guided  by  Gandhiji  from 
Yeravda  Prison  and  later  from  outside.  There  was  a  great  agitation  for 
removing  the  barriers  to  temple  entry,  and  a  bill  to  that  effect  was 
introduced  in  the  Legislative  Assembly.  And  then  the  remarkable  spec 
tacle  was  witnessed  of  an  outstanding  leader  of  the  Congress  going 
from  house  to  house  in  Delhi,  visiting  the  members  of  the  Assembly 
and  canvassing  for  their  votes  for  this  temple  entry  bill.  Gandhiji  him 
self  sent  an  appeal  through  him  to  the  Assembly  members.  And  yet 
civil  disobedience  was  still  going  on  and  people  were  going  to  prison; 
the  Assembly  had  been  boycotted  by  the  Congress,  and  all  our  mem 
bers  had  withdrawn  from  it.  The  rump  that  remained  and  the  others 
who  had  filled  the  vacancies  had  distinguished  themselves  in  this  crisis 
by  opposition  to  the  Congress  and  support  of  the  Government.  A  ma 
jority  of  them  had  helped  the  Government  to  pass  repressive  legislation 
giving  some  permanence  to  the  extraordinary  provisions  of  the  ordi 
nances. 

I  was  amazed  at  Gandhi ji's  appeal,  under  the  circumstances  then  ex 
isting,  and  even  more  so  by  the  strenuous  efforts  of  Rajagopalachari, 
who,  a  few  weeks  before,  had  been  the  acting  president  of  the  Congress. 
Civil  disobedience,  of  course,  suffered  by  these  activities;  but  what  hurt 
me  more  was  the  moral  side.  To  me,  for  Gandhiji  or  any  Congress 
leader  to  countenance  such  activities  appeared  immoral  and  almost  a 
breach  of  faith  with  the  large  numbers  of  people  in  jail  or  carrying 
on  the  struggle.  But  I  knew  that  his  way  of  looking  at  it  was  different. 

The  Government  attitude  to  this  temple  entry  bill,  then  and  subse 
quently,  was  very  revealing.  It  put  every  possible  difficulty  in  the  way 
of  its  promoters,  went  on  postponing  it  and  encouraging  opposition  to 
it,  and  then  finally  declared  its  own  opposition  to  it  and  killed  it.  That, 
to  a  greater  or  lesser  extent,  has  been  its  attitude  to  all  measures  of  so 
cial  reform  in  India,  and  on  the  plea  of  noninterference  with  religion, 
it  has  prevented  social  progress.  But  this,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  has  not 
prevented  it  from  criticizing  our  social  evils  and  encouraging  others 
to  do  so.  By  a  fluke,  the  Sarda  child  marriage  restraint  bill  became  law, 
but  the  subsequent  history  of  this  unhappy  act  showed  more  than 
anything  else  how  much  averse  to  enforcing  any  such  measure  the  Gov- 

244 


ernment  was.  The  Government  that  could  produce  ordinances  over 
night,  creating  novel  offenses  and  providing  for  vicarious  punishment, 
and  could  send  scores  o£  thousands  of  people  to  prison  for  breach  of 
their  provisions,  apparently  quailed  at  the  prospect  of  enforcing  one  of 
its  regular  laws  like  the  Sarda  Act.  The  effect  of  the  Act  was  first  to 
increase  tremendously  the  very  evil  it  was  intended  to  combat,  for 
people  rushed  to  take  advantage  of  the  intervening  six  months  of  grace 
which  the  Act  very  foolishly  allowed.  And  then  it  was  discovered  that 
the  Act  was  more  or  less  of  a  joke  and  could  be  easily  ignored  without 
any  steps  being  taken  by  Government.  Not  even  the  slightest  attempt 
at  propaganda  was  made  officially,  and  most  people  in  the  villages  never 
knew  what  the  Act  was.  They  heard  distorted  accounts  of  it  from 
Hindu  and  Moslem  village  preachers,  who  themselves  seldom  knew 
the  correct  facts. 

This  extraordinary  spirit  of  toleration  of  social  evils  in  India  which 
the  British  Government  has  shown  is  obviously  not  due  to  any  par 
tiality  for  them.  This  is  due  to  their  close  association  with  the  most 
reactionary  elements  in  India.  As  opposition  to  their  rule  increases, 
they  have  to  seek  strange  allies,  and  today  the  firmest  champions  of 
British  rule  in  India  are  the  extreme  communalists  and  the  religious 
reactionaries  and  obscurantists. 

If  the  British  Government  was  quiescent  and  took  no  steps  to  popu 
larize  the  Sarda  Act  and  to  enforce  it,  why  did  not  the  Congress  or 
other  nonofficial  organizations  carry  on  propaganda  in  favor  of  it? 
This  question  is  often  put  by  British  and  other  foreign  critics.  So  far 
as  the  Congress  is  concerned,  it  has  been  engaged  during  the  last 
fifteen  years,  and  especially  since  1930,  in  a  fierce  life-and-death  strug 
gle  for  national  freedom  with  the  British  rulers.  The  other  organiza 
tions  have  no  real  strength  or  contact  with  the  masses.  Men  and  women 
of  ideals  and  force  of  character  and  influence  among  the  masses  were 
drawn  into  the  Congress  and  spent  much  of  their  time  in  British 
prisons. 

But  the  real  reason  why  the  Congress  and  other  nonofficial  organi 
zations  cannot  do  much  for  social  reform  goes  deeper.  We  suffer  from 
the  disease  of  nationalism;  that  absorbs  our  attention,  and  it  will  con 
tinue  to  do  so  till  we  get  political  freedom. 

Past  experience  shows  us  that  we  can  make  little  social  progress  under 
present  conditions,  in  spite  of  apparent  transfers  of  subjects  to  elected 
ministers.  I  am  sure  that  if  the  Congress  started  a  nationwide  propa- 

245 


ganda  for  the  greater  use  of  soap  it  would  come  in  conflict  with  Gov 
ernment  in  many  places. 

I  do  not  think  it  is  very  difficult  to  convert  the  masses  to  social  re 
form  if  the  State  takes  the  matter  in  hand.  But  alien  rulers  are  always 
suspect,  and  they  cannot  go  far  in  the  process  of  conversion.  If  the  alien 
element  were  removed  and  economic  changes  were  given  precedence, 
an  energetic  administration  could  easily  introduce  far-reaching  social 
reforms. 

But  social  reform  and  the  Sarda  Act  and  the  Harijan  movement 
did  not  fill  our  minds  in  prison,  except  in  so  far  as  I  felt  a  little  irri 
tated  by  the  Harijan  movement  because  it  had  come  in  the  way  of 
civil  disobedience.  Early  in  May  1933,  following  Gandhiji's  twenty-one- 
day  fast,  civil  disobedience  had  been  suspended  for  six  weeks,  and  we 
waited  anxiously  for  further  developments.  That  suspension  had  given 
a  final  blow  to  the  movement,  for  one  cannot  play  fast  and  loose  with 
a  national  struggle  and  switch  it  on  and  off  at  will.  Even  before  the 
suspension  the  leadership  of  the  movement  had  been  singularly  weak 
and  ineffective.  There  were  petty  conferences  being  held,  and  all  man 
ner  of  rumors  spread  which  militated  against  active  work.  Some  of 
the  acting  presidents  of  the  Congress  were  very  estimable  men,  but  it 
was  unkindness  to  them  to  make  them  generals  of  an  active  campaign. 
There  was  too  much  of  a  hint  of  tiredness  about  them,  of  a  desire  to 
get  out  of  a  difficult  position.  There  was  some  discontent  against  this 
vacillation  and  indecision  in  high  quarters,  but  it  was  difficult  to  ex 
press  it  in  an  organized  way,  as  all  Congress  bodies  were  unlawful. 

In  the  middle  of  June  the  period  of  suspension  of  civil  disobedience 
was  extended  by  another  six  weeks.  Meanwhile  the  Government  had 
in  no  way  toned  down  its  aggression.  In  the  Andaman  Islands,  political 
prisoners  (those  convicted  in  Bengal  for  acts  of  revolutionary  violence 
were  sent  there)  were  on  hunger  strike  on  the  question  of  treatment, 
and  one  or  two  of  them  died — starved  to  death.  Others  lay  dying.  Peo 
ple  who  addressed  meetings  in  India  in  protest  of  what  was  happening 
in  the  Andamans  were  themselves  arrested  and  sentenced.  We  were 
not  only  to  suffer,  but  we  were  not  even  to  complain,  even  though 
prisoners  died  by  the  terrible  ordeal  of  the  hunger  strike,  having  no 
other  means  of  protest  open  to  them.  Some  months  later,  in  September 
1933  (when  I  was  out  of  prison),  an  appeal  was  issued  over  a  number 
of  signatures  including  Rabindranath  Tagore,  C.  F.  Andrews,  and 
many  other  well-known  people,  mostly  unconnected  with  the  Congress, 
asking  for  more  humanitarian  treatment  of  the  Andamans'  prisoners, 

246 


and  preferably  for  their  transfer  to  Indian  jails.  The  Home  Member 
of  the  Government  of  India  expressed  his  great  displeasure  at  this 
statement,  and  criticized  the  signatories  strongly  for  their  sympathy 
for  the  prisoners.  Later,  as  far  as  I  can  remember,  the  expression  of 
such  sympathy  was  made  a  punishable  offense  in  Bengal. 

Before  the  second  six  weeks  of  suspension  of  civil  disobedience  were 
over,  news  came  to  us  in  Dehra  Dun  Jail  that  Gandhiji  had  called  an 
informal  conference  at  Poona.  Two  or  three  hundred  people  met  there, 
and,  on  Gandhiji's  advice,  mass  civil  disobedience  was  suspended,  but 
individual  civil  disobedience  was  permitted,  and  all  secret  methods 
were  barred.  The  decisions  were  not  very  inspiring,  but  I  did  not  par 
ticularly  object  to  them  so  far  as  they  went.  To  stop  mass  civil  dis 
obedience  was  to  recognize  and  stabilize  existing  conditions,  for,  in 
reality,  there  was  no  mass  movement  then.  Secret  work  was  merely  a 
pretense  that  we  were  carrying  on,  and  often  it  demoralized,  having 
regard  to  the  character  of  our  movement.  To  some  extent  it  was  neces 
sary  in  order  to  send  instructions  and  keep  contacts,  but  civil  disobe 
dience  itself  could  not  be  secret. 

What  surprised  me  and  distressed  me  was  the  absence  of  any  real 
discussion  at  Poona  of  the  existing  situation  and  of  our  objectives. 
Congressmen  had  met  together  after  nearly  two  years  of  fierce  conflict 
and  repression,  and  much  had  happened  meanwhile  in  the  world  at 
large  and  in  India,  including  the  publication  of  the  White  Paper  con 
taining  the  British  Government's  proposals  for  constitutional  reform. 
We  had  to  put  up  during  this  period  with  enforced  silence,  and  on 
the  other  side  there  had  been  ceaseless  and  perverted  propaganda  to 
obscure  the  issues.  It  was  frequendy  stated,  not  only  by  supporters  of 
the  Government  but  by  Liberals  and  others,  that  the  Congress  had 
given  up  its  objective  of  independence.  The  least  that  should  have  been 
done,  I  thought,  was  to  lay  stress  on  our  political  objective,  to  make  it 
clear  again  and,  if  possible,  to  add  to  it  social  and  economic  objectives. 
Instead  of  this,  the  discussion  seems  to  have  been  entirely  confined  to 
the  relative  merits  of  mass  and  individual  civil  disobedience,  and  the 
desirability  or  otherwise  of  secrecy.  There  was  also  some  strange  talk 
of  "peace"  with  the  Government.  Gandhiji  sent  a  telegram  to  the  Vice 
roy,  as  far  as  I  remember,  asking  for  an  interview,  to  which  the  Viceroy 
replied  with  a  "No,"  and  then  Gandhiji  sent  a  second  telegram  men 
tioning  something  about  "honorable  peace."  Where  was  this  elusive 
peace  that  was  being  sought,  when  the  Government  was  triumphantly 
trying  to  crush  the  nation  in  every  way,  and  people  were  starving  to 

247 


death  in  the  Andamans?  But  I  knew  that,  whatever  happened,  it  was 
Gandhiji's  way  always  to  offer  the  olive  branch. 

Repression  was  going  on  in  full  swing,  and  all  the  special  laws  sup 
pressing  public  activities  were  in  force.  In  February  1933  even  a  me 
morial  meeting  on  my  father's  death  anniversary  was  prohibited  by  the 
police,  although  it  was  a  non-Congress  meeting,  and  such  a  good  Mod 
erate  as  Sir  Tej  Bahadur  Sapru  was  to  have  presided  over  it.  And  as 
a  vision  of  future  favors  to  come  we  had  been  presented  with  the 
White  Paper. 

This  was  a  remarkable  document,  a  perusal  of  which  left  one  gasp 
ing  for  breath.  India  was  to  be  converted  into  a  glorified  Indian  state, 
with  a  dominating  influence  of  the  states'  feudal  representatives  in  the 
federation.  But  in  the  states  themselves  no  outside  interference  would 
be  tolerated,  and  undiluted  autocracy  would  continue  to  prevail  there. 
The  real  imperial  links,  the  chains  of  debt,  would  bind  us  forever  to 
the  City  of  London,  and  the  currency  and  monetary  policy  would  also 
be  controlled,  through  a  Reserve  Bank,  by  the  Bank  of  England.  There 
would  be  an  impregnable  defense  of  all  vested  rights,  and  additional 
vested  interests  were  going  to  be  created.  Our  revenues  were  mort 
gaged  up  to  the  hilt  for  the  benefit  of  these  vested  interests.  The  great 
imperial  services,  which  we  loved  so  much,  would  continue  uncon 
trolled  and  untouched,  to  train  us  for  further  installments  of  self- 
government.  There  was  going  to  be  provincial  autonomy,  but  the  Gov 
ernor  would  be  a  benevolent  and  all-powerful  dictator  keeping  us  in 
order.  And  high  above  all  would  sit  the  All-Highest,  the  supreme  Dic 
tator,  the  Viceroy,  with  complete  powers  to  do  what  he  would  and 
check  when  he  desired.  Truly,  the  genius  of  the  British  ruling  class 
for  colonial  government  was  never  more  in  evidence,  and  well  may 
the  Hitlers  and  Mussolinis  admire  them  and  look  with  envy  on  the 
Viceroy  of  India. 

A  constitution  having  been  produced  which  tied  up  India  hand  and 
foot,  a  collection  of  "special  responsibilities"  and  safeguards  were  added 
as  additional  fetters,  making  the  unhappy  country  a  prisoner  incapable 
of  movement.  As  Mr.  Neville  Chamberlain  said :  "They  had  done  their 
best  to  surround  the  proposals  with  all  the  safeguards  the  wit  of  man 
could  devise." 

Further,  we  were  informed  that  for  these  favors  we  would  have  to 
pay  heavily— to  begin  with  a  lump  sum  of  a  few  crores,  and  then  an 
nual  payment.  We  could  not  have  the  blessings  of  Swaraj  without 
adequate  payment.  We  had  been  suffering  under  the  delusion  that  In- 

248 


dia  was  poverty-stricken  and  already  had  too  heavy  a  burden  to  carry, 
and  we  had  looked  to  freedom  to  lighten  it.  That  had  been  for  the 
masses,  the  urge  for  freedom.  But  it  now  appeared  that  the  burden 
was  to  become  heavier. 

This  Gilbertian  solution  of  the  Indian  problem  was  offered  with  true 
British  grace,  and  we  were  told  how  generous  our  rulers  were.  Never 
before  had  an  imperial  Power  of  its  own  free  will  offered  such  power 
and  opportunities  to  a  subject  people.  And  a  great  debate  arose  in  Eng 
land  between  the  donors  and  those  who,  horrified  at  such  generosity, 
objected  to  it.  This  was  the  outcome  of  the  many  comings  and  goings 
between  India  and  England  during  three  years,  of  the  three  Round 
Table  Conferences,  and  innumerable  committees  and  consultations. 

Congress  policy  then  was  mainly  one  of  defiance  of  the  ordinance 
laws  and  other  repressive  measures,  and  this  led  to  jail.  Congress  and 
the  nation  were  exhausted  after  the  long  struggle  and  could  not  bring 
any  effective  pressure  on  the  Government. 

Naked  coercion,  as  India  was  experiencing,  however,  is  an  expensive 
affair  for  the  rulers.  Even  for  them  it  is  a  painful  and  nerve-shaking 
ordeal,  and  they  know  well  that  ultimately  it  weakens  their  founda 
tions.  It  exposes  continually  the  real  character  of  their  rule,  both  to  the 
people  coerced  and  the  world  at  large.  They  infinitely  prefer  to  put  on 
the  velvet  glove  to  hide  the  iron  fist.  Nothing  is  more  irritating  and, 
in  the  final  analysis,  harmful  to  a  Government  than  to  have  to  deal 
with  people  who  will  not  bend  to  its  will,  whatever  the  consequences. 
So  even  sporadic  defiance  of  the  repressive  measures  had  value;  it 
strengthened  the  people  and  sapped  the  morale  of  Government. 

The  moral  consideration  was  even  more  important  to  us.  In  a  fa 
mous  passage  Thoreau  has  said:  "At  a  time  when  men  and  women 
are  unjustly  imprisoned  the  place  for  just  men  and  women  is  also  in 
prison."  Many  of  us  often  feel  that  a  moral  life  under  existing  condi 
tions  is  intolerable,  when,  even  apart  from  civil  disobedience,  many  of 
our  colleagues  are  always  in  prison  and  the  coercive  apparatus  of  the 
State  is  continually  repressing  us  and  humiliating  us,  as  well  as  help 
ing  in  the  exploitation  of  our  people.  In  our  own  country  we  move 
about  as  suspects,  shadowed  and  watched,  our  words  recorded  lest 
they  infringe  the  all-pervading  law  of  sedition,  our  correspondence 
opened,  the  possibility  of  some  executive  prohibition  or  arrest  always 
facing  us.  For  us  the  choice  is:  abject  submission  to  the  power  of  the 
State,  spiritual  degradation,  the  denial  of  the  truth  that  is  in  us,  and 
our  moral  prostitution  for  purposes  that  we  consider  base — or  opposi- 

249 


tion  with  all  the  consequences  thereof.  No  one  likes  to  go  to  jail  or 
to  invite  trouble.  But  often  jail  is  preferable  to  the  other  alternative. 


XXXVIII 

THE  END  OF  A  LONG  TERM 

THE  TIME  FOR  my  discharge  was  drawing  near.  I  had  received  the 
usual  remissions  for  "good  behavior,"  and  this  had  reduced  my  two- 
year  term  by  three  and  a  half  months.  My  peace  of  mind.,  or  rather  the 
general  dullness  o£  the  mind  which  prison  produces,  was  being  dis 
turbed  by  the  excitement  created  by  the  prospect  of  release.  What  must 
I  do  outside?  A  difficult  question,  and  the  hesitation  I  had  in  answer 
ing  it  took  away  from  the  joy  of  going  out.  But  even  that  was  a  mo 
mentary  feeling;  my  long-suppressed  energy  was  bubbling  up,  and  I 
was  eager  to  be  out. 

The  end  of  July  1933  brought  a  painful  and  very  disturbing  piece 
of  news — the  sudden  death  of  J.  M.  Sen-Gupta  under  detention.  He 
had  been  made  a  State  prisoner  on  his  return  from  Europe  early  in 
1932,  while  he  was  still  on  board  ship  in  Bombay.  Since  then  he  had 
been  a  prisoner  or  a  detenu,  and  his  health  had  deteriorated.  Various 
facilities  were  given  to  him  by  the  Government,  but  evidently  they 
could  not  check  the  course  of  the  disease.  His  funeral  in  Calcutta  was 
the  occasion  for  a  remarkable  mass  demonstration  and  tribute;  it 
seemed  that  the  long-pent-up  suffering  soul  of  Bengal  had  found  an 
outlet  for  a  while  at  least. 

So  Sen-Gupta  had  gone.  Subhas  Bose,  another  State  prisoner  whose 
health  had  broken  down  under  years  of  internment  and  prison,  had  at 
last  been  permitted  by  the  Government  to  go  to  Europe  for  treatment. 
The  veteran  Vallabhbhai  Patel  also  lay  ill  in  Europe.  And  how  many 
others  had  broken  down  in  health  or  died.,  unable  to  stand  the  physical 
strain  of  jail  life  and  ceaseless  activity  outside!  How  many,  though 
outwardly  not  much  changed,  had  suffered  deeper  mental  derange 
ments  and  developed  complexes  on  account  of  the  abnormal  lives  they 
had  been  made  to  lead! 

Sen-Gupta's  death  made  me  vividly  aware  of  all  this  terrible,  silent 
suffering  going  on  throughout  the  country,  and  I  felt  weary  and  de 
pressed.  To  what  end  was  all  this?  To  what  end? 

250 


I  had  been  fortunate  in  my  own  health,  and  in  spite  o£  the  strains 
and  irregular  life  of  Congress  activity,  I  had,  on  the  whole,  kept  well. 
Partly,  I  suppose,  this  was  due  to  the  good  constitution  I  had  inherited, 
partly  to  my  care  of  the  body.  Illness  and  weak  health  as  well  as  too 
much  fat  seemed  to  me  a  most  unbecoming  state  of  affairs,  and,  with 
the  help  of  exercise,  plenty  of  fresh  air,  and  simple  food,  I  managed 
to  keep  away  from  them. 

I  have  cared  little  for  food  fads,  and  have  only  avoided  overeating 
and  rich  foods.  Like  nearly  all  Kashmiri  Brahmans,  our  family  was  a 
meat-eating  one,  and  from  childhood  onward  I  had  always  taken  meat, 
although  I  never  fancied  it  much.  With  the  coming  of  nonco-operation 
in  1920  I  gave  up  meat  and  became  a  vegetarian.  I  remained  a  vege 
tarian  till  a  visit  to  Europe  six  years  later,  when  I  relapsed  to  meat 
eating.  On  my  return  to  India  I  became  a  vegetarian  again,  and  since 
then  I  have  been  more  or  less  a  vegetarian.  Meat  eating  seems  to  agree 
with  me  well,  but  I  have  developed  a  distaste  for  it,  and  it  gives  me  a 
feeling  of  coarseness. 

My  periods  of  ill-health,  chiefly  in  prison  in  1932,  when  for  many 
months  I  had  a  rise  of  temperature  every  day,  annoyed  me,  because 
they  hurt  my  conceit  of  good  health.  And  for  the  first  time  I  did  not 
think,  as  I  used  to  do,  in  terms  of  abounding  life  and  energy,  but  a 
specter  of  a  gradual  decay  and  a  wearing  away  rose  up  before  me  and 
alarmed  me.  I  do  not  think  I  am  particularly  frightened  of  death.  But 
a  slow  deterioration,  bodily  and  mental,  was  quite  another  matter. 
However,  my  fears  proved  exaggerated,  and  I  managed  to  get  rid  of 
the  indisposition  and  bring  my  body  under  control.  Long  sun  baths 
during  the  winter  helped  me  to  get  back  my  feeling  of  well-being. 
While  my  companions  in  prison  would  shiver  in  their  coats  and  shawls, 
I  would  sit,  bare-bodied,  delightfully  warmed  up  by  the  sun's  embrace. 
This  was  only  possible  in  north  India  during  the  winter,  as  elsewhere 
the  sun  is  usually  too  hot. 

Among  my  exercises  one  pleased  me  particularly — the  shtrshasana, 
standing  on  the  head  with  the  palms  of  the  hands,  fingers  interlocked, 
supporting  the  back  of  the  head,  elbows  on  the  floor,  body  vertical,  up 
side  down.  I  suppose  physically  this  exercise  is  very  good:  I  liked  it 
even  more  for  its  psychological  effect  on  me.  The  slightly  comic  posi 
tion  increased  my  good  humor  and  made  me  a  little  more  tolerant  of 
life's  vagaries. 

My  usual  good  health  and  the  bodily  sense  of  well-being  have  been 
of  very  great  help  to  me  in  getting  over  periods  of  depression,  which 

251 


are  inevitable  in  prison  life.  They  have  helped  me  also  in  accommo 
dating  myself  to  changing  conditions  in  prison  or  outside.  I  have  had 
many  shocks  which  at  the  time  seemed  to  bowl  me  over,  but  to  my 
own  surprise  I  have  recovered  sooner  than  I  expected.  I  suppose  a  test 
of  my  fundamental  sobriety  and  sanity  is  the  fact  that  I  hardly  know 
what  a  bad  headache  is,  nor  have  I  ever  been  troubled  with  insomnia. 
I  have  escaped  these  common  diseases  o£  civilization,  as  also  bad  eye 
sight,  in  spite  of  excessive  use  of  the  eyes  for  reading  and  writing, 
sometimes  in  a  bad  light  in  jail.  An  eye  specialist  expressed  his  amaze 
ment  last  year  at  my  good  eyesight.  Eight  years  before  he  had  proph 
esied  that  I  would  have  to  take  to  spectacles  in  another  year  or  two. 
He  was  very  much  mistaken,  and  I  am  still  carrying  on  successfully 
without  them.  Although  these  facts  might  establish  my  reputation  for 
sobriety  and  sanity,  I  might  add  that  I  have  a  horror  of  people  who 
are  inescapably  and  unchangingly  sane  and  sober. 

While  I  waited  for  my  discharge  from  prison,  the  new  form  of  civil 
disobedience  for  individuals  was  beginning  outside.  Gandhi ji  decided 
to  give  the  lead,  and,  after  giving  full  notice  to  the  authorities,  he 
started  on  August  i  with  the  intention  of  preaching  civil  resistance  to 
the  Gujrat  peasantry.  He  was  immediately  arrested,  sentenced  to  one 
year,  and  sent  back  again  to  his  cell  in  Yeravda.  I  was  glad  he  had 
gone  back.  But  soon  a  new  complication  arose.  Gandhiji  claimed  the 
same  facilities  for  carrying  on  Harijan  work  from  prison  as  he  had 
had  before;  the  Government  refused  to  grant  them.  Suddenly  we 
heard  that  Gandhiji  had  started  fasting  again  on  this  issue.  It  seemed 
an  extraordinarily  trivial  matter  for  such  a  tremendous  step.  It  was 
quite  impossible  for  me  to  understand  his  decision,  even  though  he 
might  be  completely  right  in  his  argument  with  the  Government.  We 
could  do  nothing,  and  we  looked  on,  bewildered. 

After  a  week  of  the  fast  his  condition  grew  rapidly  worse.  He  had 
been  removed  to  a  hospital,  but  he  was  still  a  prisoner,  and  Govern 
ment  would  not  give  in  on  the  question  of  facilities  for  Harijan  work. 
He  lost  the  will  to  live  (which  he  had  during  his  previous  fasts)  and 
allowed  himself  to  go  downhill.  The  end  seemed  to  be  near.  He  said 
good-by  and  even  made  dispositions  of  the  few  personal  articles 
that  were  lying  about  him,  giving  some  to  the  nurses.  But  the  Gov 
ernment  had  no  intention  of  allowing  him  to  die  on  their  hands,  and 
that  evening  he  was  suddenly  discharged.  It  was  just  in  time  to  save 
him.  Another  day  and  perhaps  it  would  have  been  too  late.  Probably 

252 


a  great  deal  of  the  credit  for  saving  him  should  go  to  C.  F.  Andrews, 
who  had  rushed  to  India,  contrary  to  Gandhi]  i's  advice. 

Meanwhile  I  was  transferred  from  Dehra  Dun  Jail  on  August  23, 
and  I  returned  to  Naini  Prison  after  more  than  a  year  and  a  half's 
residence  in  other  jails.  Just  then  news  came  of  my  mother's  sudden 
illness  and  her  removal  to  hospital.  On  August  30,  1933,  I  was  dis 
charged  from  Naini  because  my  mother's  condition  was  considered 
serious.  Ordinarily  I  would  have  been  released,  at  the  latest,  on  Sep 
tember  12  when  my  term  expired.  I  was  thus  given  an  additional 
thirteen  days  of  remission  by  the  Provincial  Government. 

Immediately  after  my  release,  I  hastened  to  Lucknow  to  my  mother's 
bedside,  and  I  remained  with  her  for  some  days.  I  had  come  out  of 
prison  after  a  fairly  long  period,  and  I  felt  detached  and  out  of  touch 
with  my  surroundings.  I  realized  with  a  little  shock,  as  we  all  do,  that 
the  world  had  gone  on  moving  and  changing  while  I  lay  stagnating 
in  prison.  Children  and  boys  and  girls  growing  up;  marriages,  births, 
deaths;  love  and  hate,  work  and  play,  tragedy  and  comedy.  New  inter 
ests  in  life,  new  subjects  for  conversation,  always  there  was  a  little  ele 
ment  of  surprise  in  what  I  saw  and  heard.  Life  seemed  to  have  passed 
by,  leaving  me  in  a  backwater.  It  was  not  a  wholly  pleasant  feeling. 
Soon  I  would  have  adapted  myself  to  my  environment,  but  I  felt  no 
urge  to  do  so.  I  realized  that  I  was  only  having  a  brief  outing  outside 
prison,  and  would  have  to  go  back  again  before  long.  So  why  trouble 
myself  about  adaptation  to  something  which  I  would  leave  soon? 

Politically,  India  was  more  or  less  quiet;  public  activities  were  largely 
controlled  and  suppressed  by  the  Government,  and  arrests  occasion 
ally  took  place.  But  the  silence  of  India  then  was  full  of  significance. 
It  was  the  ominous  silence  which  follows  exhaustion  after  experiencing 
a  period  of  fierce  repression,  a  silence  which  is  often  very  eloquent, 
but  is  beyond  the  ken  of  governments  that  repress.  India  was  the  ideal 
police  state,  and  the  police  mentality  pervaded  all  spheres  of  govern 
ment.  Outwardly  all  nonconformity  was  suppressed,  and  a  vast  army 
of  spies  and  secret  agents  covered  the  land.  There  was  an  atmosphere 
of  demoralization  and  an  all-pervading  fear  among  the  people.  Any 
political  activity,  especially  in  the  rural  areas,  was  immediately  sup 
pressed,  and  the  various  provincial  governments  were  trying  to  hound 
out  Congressmen  from  the  service  of  municipalities  and  local  boards. 
Every  person  who  had  been  to  prison  as  a  civil  resister  was  unfit,  ac 
cording  to  Government,  for  teaching  in  a  municipal  school  or  serving 
the  municipality  in  any  other  way.  Great  pressure  was  brought  to  bear 

253 


on  municipalities,  etc.,  and  threats  were  held  out  that  Government 
grants  would  be  stopped  if  the  offending  Congressmen  were  not  dis 
missed.  The  most  notorious  example  of  this  coercion  took  place  in 
the  Calcutta  Corporation.  Ultimately,  I  believe,  the  Bengal  Govern 
ment  passed  a  law  against  the  employment  by  the  Corporation  of 
persons  who  had  been  convicted  for  political  offenses. 

Reports  of  Nazi  excesses  in  Germany  had  a  curious  effect  on  British 
ofHcials  and  their  press  in  India.  They  gave  them  a  justification  for  all 
they  had  done  in  India,  and  it  was  pointed  out  to  us,  with  a  glow  of 
conscious  virtue,  how  much  worse  our  lot  would  have  been  if  the 
Nazis  had  had  anything  to  do  with  us.  New  standards  and  records 
had  been  set  up  by  the  Nazis,  and  it  was  certainly  not  an  easy  matter 
to  rival  them.  Perhaps  our  lot  would  have  been  worse;  it  is  difficult 
for  me  to  judge,  for  I  have  not  all  the  facts  of  the  occurrences  that  have 
taken  place  in  various  parts  of  India  during  the  past  five  years.  The 
British  Government  in  India  believes  in  the  charity  that  its  right  hand 
should  not  know  what  its  left  hand  does,  and  so  it  has  turned  down 
every  suggestion  for  an  impartial  inquiry,  although  such  inquiries  are 
always  weighted  on  the  official  side.  I  think  it  is  true  that  the  aver 
age  Englishman  hates  brutality,  and  I  cannot  conceive  English  people 
openly  glorying  in  and  repeating  lovingly  the  word  Brutalitat  (or  its 
English  equivalent),  as  the  Nazis  do.  Even  when  they  indulge  in  the 
deed,  they  are  a  little  ashamed  of  it.  But  whether  we  are  Germans  or 
English  or  Indians,  I  am  afraid  our  veneer  of  civilized  conduct  is  thin 
enough,  and,  when  passions  are  aroused,  it  rubs  off  and  reveals  some 
thing  that  is  not  good  to  look  at. 

I  have  had  ample  leisure  in  jail  to  read  the  speeches  of  high  officials, 
their  answers  to  questions  in  the  Assembly  and  councils,  and  Govern 
ment  statements.  I  noticed,  during  the  years  1932  to  1935,  a  marked 
change  coming  over  them,  and  this  change  became  progressively  more 
and  more  obvious.  They  became  more  threatening  and  minatory,  de 
veloping  more  and  more  in  the  style  of  a  sergeant-major  addressing 
his  men.  A  remarkable  example  of  this  was  a  speech  delivered  by  the 
Commissioner  of,  I  think,  the  Midnapur  Division  in  Bengal  in  Novem 
ber  or  December  1933.  Vac  victis  seems  to  run  like  a  thread  through 
these  utterances.  Nonofficial  Europeans,  in  Bengal  especially,  go  even 
further  than  the  official  variety,  and  both  in  their  speeches  and  actions 
have  shown  a  very  decided  fascist  tendency. 

Yet  another  revealing  instance  of  brutalization  was  the  recent  public 
hangings  of  some  convicted  criminals  in  Sind.  Because  crime  was  on 

254 


the  increase  in  Sind,  the  authorities  there  decided  to  execute  these 
criminals  publicly,  as  a  warning  to  others.  Every  facility  was  given  to 
the  public  to  attend  and  watch  this  ghastly  spectacle,  and  it  is  said  that 
many  thousands  came. 

So  after  my  discharge  from  prison  I  surveyed  political  and  economic 
conditions  in  India,  and  felt  little  enthusiasm. 

I  had  no  desire  to  go  back  to  prison.  I  had  had  enough  of  it.  But  I 
could  not  see  how  I  could  escape  it  under  the  existing  circumstances, 
unless  I  decided  to  retire  from  all  political  activity.  I  had  no  such  in 
tention,  and  so  I  felt  that  I  was  bound  to  come  into  conflict  with  the 
Government.  At  any  moment  some  order  might  be  served  on  me  to 
do  something,  or  to  abstain  from  doing  something,  and  all  my  nature 
rebelled  at  being  forced  to  act  in  a  particular  way.  An  attempt  was  be 
ing  made  to  cow  and  coerce  the  people  of  India.  I  was  helpless  and 
could  do  nothing  on  the  wider  field,  but,  at  any  rate,  I  could  refuse 
personally  to  be  cowed  and  coerced  into  submission. 

Before  I  went  back  to  prison,  I  wanted  to  attend  to  certain  matters. 
My  mother's  illness  claimed  my  attention  first  of  all.  Very  slowly  she 
improved;  the  process  was  so  slow  that  for  a  year  she  was  bedridden. 
I  was  eager  to  see  Gandhiji,  who  lay  recovering  from  his  latest  fast  in 
Poona.  For  over  two  years  I  had  not  met  him.  I  also  wanted  to  meet 
as  many  of  my  provincial  colleagues  as  possible  to  discuss,  not  only  the 
existing  political  situation  in  India,  but  the  world  situation  as  well  as 
the  ideas  that  filled  my  mind.  I  thought  then  that  the  world  was  going 
rapidly  toward  a  catastrophe,  political  and  economic,  and  we  ought  to 
keep  this  in  mind  in  drawing  up  our  national  programs. 

My  household  affairs  also  claimed  my  attention.  I  had  ignored  them 
completely  so  far,  and  I  had  not  even  examined  my  father's  papers 
since  his  death.  We  had  cut  down  our  expenditure  greatly,  but  still  it 
was  far  more  than  we  could  afford.  And  yet  it  was  difficult  to  reduce 
it  further,  so  long  as  we  lived  in  that  house  of  ours.  We  were  not  keep 
ing  a  car  because  that  was  beyond  our  means,  and  also  because,  at  any 
moment,  it  could  be  attached  by  Government.  Faced  by  financial  dif 
ficulties,  I  was  diverted  by  the  large  mail  of  begging  letters  that  I  re 
ceived.  (The  censor  passed  the  lot  on.)  There  was  a  general  and  very 
erroneous  impression,  especially  in  south  India,  that  I  was  a  wealthy 
person. 

Soon  after  my  release  my  younger  sister,  Krishna,  got  engaged  to 
be  married,  and  I  was  anxious  to  have  the  wedding  early,  before  my 

255 


enforced  departure  took  place.  Krishna  herself  had  come  out  of  prison 
a  few  months  earlier  after  serving  out  a  year. 

As  soon  as  my  mother *s  health  permitted  it,  I  went  to  Poona  to  see 
Gandhiji.  I  was  happy  to  see  him  again  and  to  find  that,  though  weak, 
he  was  making  good  progress.  We  had  long  talks.  It  was  obvious  that 
we  differed  considerably  in  our  outlook  on  life  and  politics  and  eco 
nomics;  but  I  was  grateful  to  him  for  the  generous  way  in  which  he 
tried  to  come  as  far  as  he  could  to  meet  my  viewpoint.  Our  corre 
spondence,  subsequently  published,  dealt  with  some  of  the  wider  issues 
that  filled  my  mind,  and,  though  they  were  referred  to  in  vague  lan 
guage,  the  general  drift  was  clear.  I  was  happy  to  have  Gandhi ji's 
declaration  that  there  must  be  a  de-vesting  of  vested  interests,  though 
he  laid  stress  that  this  should  be  by  conversion,  not  compulsion.  As 
some  of  his  methods  of  conversion  are  not  far  removed,  to  my  think 
ing,  from  courteous  and  considerate  compulsion,  the  difference  did  not 
seem  to  me  very  great.  I  had  the  feeling  with  him  then,  as  before,  that 
though  he  might  be  averse  to  considering  vague  theories  the  logic  of 
facts  would  take  him,  step  by  step,  to  the  inevitability  of  fundamental 
social  changes. 

For  the  present,  I  thought  then,  this  question  did  not  arise.  We 
were  in  the  middle  of  our  national  struggle,  and  civil  disobedience  was 
still  the  program,  in  theory,  of  the  Congress,  although  it  had  been  re 
stricted  to  individuals.  We  had  to  carry  on  as  we  were  and  try  to 
spread  socialistic  ideas  among  the  people,  and  especially  among  the 
more  politically  conscious  Congress  workers,  so  that  when  the  time 
came  for  another  declaration  of  policy  we  might  be  ready  for  a  notable 
advance.  Meanwhile,  Congress  was  an  unlawful  organization,  and  the 
British  Government  was  trying  to  crush  it.  We  had  to  meet  that  attack. 

The  principal  problem  which  faced  Gandhiji  was  a  personal  one. 
What  was  he  to  do  himself?  He  was  in  a  tangle.  If  he  went  to  jail 
again,  the  same  question  of  Harijan  privileges  would  arise  and,  pre 
sumably,  the  Government  would  not  give  in,  and  he  would  fast  again. 
Would  the  same  round  be  repeated?  He  refused  to  submit  to  such  a 
cat-and-mouse  policy,  and  said  that  if  he  fasted  again  for  those  privi 
leges,  the  fast  would  continue  even  though  he  were  released.  That 
meant  a  fast  to  death. 

The  second  possible  course  before  him  was  not  to  court  imprison 
ment  during  the  year  of  his  sentence  (ten  and  a  half  months  of  this 
remained  still)  and  devote  himself  to  Harijan  work.  But  at  the  same 
time  he  would  meet  Congress  workers  and  advise  them  when  necessary. 

256 


Mohandas  K.  Gandhi 


Satyendranath  Blsi 


Jawaharlal  Nehru  and  Rabindranath  Tagore,  the  poet.  Tagore  was 
born  on  the  same  day,  month,  and  year  as  Nehru's  father 


Tara{  Das 


A  third  possibility  he  suggested  to  me  was  that  he  should  retire 
from  the  Congress  altogether  for  a  while,  and  leave  it  in  the  hands  of 
the  "younger  generation,"  as  he  put  it. 

The  first  course,  ending,  as  it  seemed,  in  his  death  by  starvation,  was 
impossible  for  any  one  of  us  to  recommend.  The  third  seemed  very 
undesirable  when  the  Congress  was  an  illegal  body.  It  would  either 
result  in  the  immediate  withdrawal  of  civil  disobedience  and  all  forms 
of  direct  action  and  a  going  back  to  legality  and  constitutional  ac 
tivity,  or  in  a  Congress,  outlawed  and  isolated,  now  even  from  Gan- 
dhiji,  being  crushed  still  further  by  Government.  Besides,  there  was 
no  question  of  any  group's  taking  possession  of  an  illegal  organization 
which  could  not  meet  and  discuss  any  policy.  By  a  process  of  exclu 
sion  we  arrived  thus  at  the  second  course  of  action  suggested  by  him. 
Most  of  us  disliked  it,  and  we  knew  that  it  would  give  a  heavy  blow 
to  the  remains  of  civil  disobedience.  If  the  leader  had  himself  retired 
from  the  fight,  it  was  not  likely  that  many  enthusiastic  Congress  work 
ers  would  jump  into  the  fire.  But  there  seemed  no  other  way  out  of 
the  tangle,  and  Gandhi ji  made  his  announcement  accordingly. 

We  agreed,  Gandhi  ji  and  I,  though  perhaps  for  different  reasons, 
that  the  time  was  not  yet  for  a  withdrawal  of  civil  disobedience  and 
that  we  had  to  carry  on  even  at  a  low  ebb.  For  the  rest,  I  wanted  to 
turn  people's  attention  to  socialistic  doctrines  and  the  world  situation. 

I  spent  a  few  days  in  Bombay  on  my  way  back.  I  was  fortunate  in 
catching  Uday  Shankar  there  and  seeing  his  dancing.  This  was  an  un 
expected  treat  which  I  enjoyed  greatly.  Theaters,  music,  cinema,  talk 
ies,  radio  and  broadcasting — all  this  had  been  beyond  my  reach  for 
many  years,  for  even  during  my  intervals  of  freedom  I  had  been  too 
engrossed  in  other  activities.  I  have  only  been  once  to  a  talkie  so  far, 
and  the  great  names  of  cinema  stars  are  names  only  to  me.  I  have 
missed  the  theater  especially,  and  I  have  often  read  with  envy  of  new 
productions  in  foreign  countries.  In  northern  India,  even  when  I  was 
out  of  jail,  there  was  little  opportunity  of  seeing  good  plays,  for  there 
were  hardly  any  within  reach. 

Recently  there  has  been  an  artistic  awakening,  led  by  the  brilliant 
Tagore  family,  and  its  influence  is  already  apparent  all  over  India. 
But  how  can  any  art  flourish  widely  when  the  people  of  the  country 
are  hampered  and  restricted  and  suppressed  at  every  turn  and  live  in 
an  atmosphere  of  fear? 

In  Bombay  I  met  many  friends  and  comrades,  some  only  recently 
out  of  prison.  The  socialistic  element  was  strong  there,  and  there  was 

257 


much  resentment  at  recent  happenings  in  the  upper  ranks  of  the  Con 
gress.  Gandhiji  was  severely  critized  for  his  metaphysical  outlook  ap 
plied  to  politics.  With  much  of  the  criticism  I  was  in  agreement,  but 
I  was  quite  clear  that,  situated  as  we  were,  we  had  little  choice  in  the 
matter  and  had  to  carry  on.  Any  attempt  to  withdraw  civil  disobedi 
ence  would  have  brought  no  relief  to  us,  for  the  Government's  of 
fensive  would  continue  and  all  effective  work  would  inevitably  lead 
to  prison.  Our  national  movement  had  arrived  at  a  stage  when  it  had 
to  be  suppressed  by  Government,  or  it  would  impose  its  will  on  the 
British  Government.  This  meant  that  it  had  arrived  at  a  stage  when  it 
was  always  likely  to  be  declared  illegal,  and,  as  a  movement,  it  could 
not  go  back  even  if  civil  disobedience  were  withdrawn.  The  contin 
uance  of  disobedience  made  little  difference  in  practice,  but  it  was  an 
act  of  moral  defiance  which  had  value.  It  was  easier  to  spread  new 
ideas  during  a  struggle  than  it  would  be  when  the  struggle  was  wound 
up  for  the  time  being,  and  demoralization  ensued.  The  only  alter 
native  to  the  struggle  was  a  compromising  attitude  to  the  British 
authority  and  constitutional  action  in  the  councils. 

It  was  a  difficult  position,  and  the  choice  was  not  an  easy  one.  I  ap 
preciated  the  mental  conflicts  of  my  colleagues,  for  I  had  myself  had  to 
face  them.  But  I  found  there,  as  I  have  found  elsewhere  in  India,  some 
people  who  wanted  to  make  high  socialistic  doctrine  a  refuge  for  inac 
tion.  It  was  a  little  irritating  to  find  people  who  did  little  themselves 
criticizing  others  who  had  shouldered  the  burden  in  the  heat  and  dust 
of  the  fray,  as  reactionaries.  These  parlor  socialists  are  especially  hard 
on  Gandhiji  as  the  archreactionary,  and  advance  arguments  which  in 
logic  leave  little  to  be  desired.  But  the  little  fact  remains  that  this  "re 
actionary"  knows  India,  understands  India,  almost  is  peasant  India, 
and  has  shaken  up  India  as  no  so-called  revolutionary  has  done.  Even 
his  latest  Harijan  activities  have  gently  but  irresistibly  undermined 
orthodox  Hinduism  and  shaken  it  to  its  foundations.  The  whole  tribe 
of  the  Orthodox  have  ranged  themselves  against  him  and  consider 
him  their  most  dangerous  enemy,  although  he  continues  to  treat  them 
with  all  gentleness  and  courtesy.  In  his  own  peculiar  way  he  has  a 
knack  of  releasing  powerful  forces  which  spread  out,  like  ripples  on 
the  water's  surface,  and  affect  millions.  Reactionary  or  revolutionary, 
he  has  changed  the  face  of  India,  given  pride  and  character  to  a  cring 
ing  and  demoralized  people,  built  up  strength  and  consciousness  in 
the  masses,  and  made  the  Indian  problem  a  world  problem.  Quite 
apart  from  the  objectives  aimed  at  and  its  metaphysical  implications, 

258 


the  method  o£  nonviolent  nonco-operation  or  civil  resistance  is  a  unique 
and  powerful  contribution  of  his  to  India  and  the  world,  and  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  it  has  been  peculiarly  suited  to  Indian  conditions. 

I  think  it  is  right  that  we  should  encourage  honest  criticism  and 
have  as  much  public  discussion  of  our  problems  as  possible.  It  is  un 
fortunate  that  Gandhiji's  dominating  position  has  to  some  extent  pre 
vented  this  discussion.  There  was  always  a  tendency  to  rely  on  him 
and  to  leave  the  decision  to  him.  This  is  obviously  wrong,  and  the 
nation  can  only  advance  by  reasoned  acceptance  of  objectives  and 
methods,  and  a  co-operation  and  discipline  based  on  them  and  not  on 
blind  obedience.  No  one,  however  great  he  may  be,  should  be  above 
criticism.  But,  when  criticism  becomes  a  mere  refuge  for  inaction,  there 
is  something  wrong  with  it.  For  socialists  to  indulge  in  this  kind  of 
thing  is  to  invite  condemnation  from  the  public,  for  the  masses  judge 
by  acts.  "He  who  denies  the  sharp  tasks  of  today,"  says  Lenin,  "in  the 
name  of  dreams  about  soft  tasks  of  the  future  becomes  an  opportunist. 
Theoretically  it  means  to  fail  to  base  oneself  on  the  developments  now 
going  on  in  real  life,  to  detach  oneself  from  them  in  the  name  of 
dreams." 

Socialists  and  communists  in  India  are  largely  nurtured  on  litera 
ture  dealing  with  the  industrial  proletariat.  In  some  selected  areas,  like 
Bombay  or  near  Calcutta,  large  numbers  of  factory  workers  abound, 
but  for  the  rest  India  remains  agricultural,  and  the  Indian  problem 
cannot  be  disposed  of,  or  treated  effectively,  in  terms  of  the  industrial 
workers.  Nationalism  and  rural  economy  are  the  dominating  consider 
ations,  and  European  socialism  seldom  deals  with  these.  Prewar  con 
ditions  in  Russia  were  a  much  nearer  approach  to  India,  but  there 
again  the  most  extraordinary  and  unusual  occurrences  took  place,  and 
it  is  absurd  to  expect  a  repetition  of  these  anywhere  else.  I  do  be 
lieve  that  the  philosophy  of  communism  helps  us  to  understand  and 
analyze  existing  conditions  in  any  country,  and  further  indicates  the 
road  to  future  progress.  But  it  is  doing  violence  and  injustice  to  that 
philosophy  to  apply  it  blindfold  and  without  due  regard  to  facts  and 
conditions. 

Life  is  anyhow  a  complex  affair,  and  the  conflicts  and  contradic 
tions  of  life  sometimes  make  one  despair  a  little.  It  is  not  surprising 
that  people  should  differ,  or  even  that  comrades  with  a  common  ap 
proach  to  problems  should  draw  different  conclusions.  But  a  person 
who  tries  to  hide  his  own  weakness  in  high-sounding  phrases  and 
noble  principles  is  apt  to  be  suspect.  A  person  who  tries  to  save  him- 

259 


self  from  prison  by  giving  undertakings  and  assurances  to  the  Gov 
ernment,  or  by  other  dubious  conduct,  and  then  has  the  temerity  to 
criticize  others,  is  likely  to  injure  the  cause  he  espouses. 


XXXIX 

DOMINION  STATUS  AND  INDEPENDENCE 

DURING  MY  VISIT  to  Poona  to  see  Gandhiji,  I  accompanied  him  one 
evening  to  the  Servants  of  India  Society's  home.  For  an  hour  or  so 
questions  were  put  to  him  on  political  matters  by  some  of  the  mem 
bers  of  the  Society,  and  he  answered  them.  Mr.  Srinivasa  Sastri  was 
not  there,  nor  was  Pandit  Hriday  Nath  Konzru,  probably  the  ablest 
of  the  other  members,  but  some  senior  members  were  present.  A  few 
of  us  who  were  present  on  the  occasion  listened  with  growing  amaze 
ment,  for  the  questions  related  to  the  most  trivial  of  happenings. 
Mostly  they  dealt  with  Gandhiji's  old  request  for  an  interview  with 
the  Viceroy  and  the  Viceroy's  refusal.  Was  this  the  only  important  sub 
ject  they  could  think  of  in  a  world  full  of  problems,  and  when  their 
own  country  was  carrying  on  a  hard  struggle  for  freedom  and  hun 
dreds  of  organizations  were  outlawed?  There  was  the  agrarian  crisis 
and  the  industrial  depression  causing  widespread  unemployment.  There 
were  the  dreadful  happenings  in  Bengal  and  the  Frontier  and  in  other 
parts  of  India;  the  suppression  of  freedom  of  thought  and  speech  and 
writing  and  assembly;  and  so  many  other  national  and  international 
problems.  But  the  questions  were  limited  to  unimportant  happenings, 
and  the  possible  reactions  of  the  Viceroy  and  the  Government  of  India 
to  an  approach  by  Gandhiji. 

I  had  a  strong  feeling  as  if  I  had  entered  a  monastery,  the  inhabitants 
of  which  had  long  been  cut  off  from  effective  contact  with  the  out 
side  world.  And  yet  our  friends  were  active  politicians,  able  men  with 
long  records  of  public  service  and  sacrifice.  They  formed,  with  a  few 
others,  the  real  backbone  of  the  Liberal  party.  The  rest  of  the  party 
was  a  vague,  amorphous  lot  of  people  who  wanted  occasionally  to 
have  the  sensation  of  being  connected  with  political  activities.  Some 
of  these,  especially  in  Bombay  and  Madras,  were  indistinguishable 
from  Government  officials. 

The  questions  that  a  country  puts  are  a  measure  of  that  country's 

260 


political  development.  Often  the  failure  of  that  country  is  due  to  the 
fact  that  it  has  not  put  the  right  question  to  itself.  Our  wasting  our 
time  and  energy  and  tempers  over  the  communal  distribution  of  seats, 
or  our  forming  parties  on  the  communal  award  and  carrying  on 
a  sterile  controversy  about  it  to  the  exclusion  of  vital  problems,  is  a 
measure  of  our  political  backwardness.  In  the  same  way  the  questions 
that  were  put  to  Gandhiji  that  day  in  the  Servants  of  India  Society's 
home  mirrored  the  strange  mental  state  of  that  Society  and  of  the  Lib 
eral  party.  They  seemed  to  have  no  political  or  economic  principles,  no 
wide  outlook,  and  their  politics  seemed  to  be  of  the  parlor  or  court 
variety — what  high  officials  would  do  or  would  not  do. 

The  Indian  Liberals  are  not  liberal  at  all  in  any  sense  of  the  word, 
or  at  most  they  are  liberal  only  in  spots  and  patches.  What  they  ex 
actly  are  it  is  difficult  to  say,  for  they  have  no  firm  positive  basis  of 
ideas  and,  though  small  in  numbers,  differ  from  one  another.  They 
are  strong  only  in  negation.  They  see  error  everywhere  and  attempt  to 
avoid  it,  and  hope  that  in  doing  so  they  will  find  the  truth.  Truth  for 
them,  indeed,  always  lies  between  two  extremes.  By  criticizing  every 
thing  they  consider  extreme,  they  experience  the  feeling  of  being  vir 
tuous  and  moderate  and  good.  This  method  helps  them  in  avoiding 
painful  and  difficult  processes  of  thought  and  in  having  to  put  forward 
constructive  ideas. 

Moderation  and  conservatism  and  a  desire  to  avoid  risks  and  sud 
den  changes  are  often  the  inevitable  accompaniments  of  old  age.  They 
do  not  seem  quite  so  appropriate  in  the  young,  but  ours  is  an  ancient 
land,  and  sometimes  its  children  seem  to  be  born  tired  and  weary,  with 
all  the  lackluster  and  marks  of  age  upon  them.  But  even  this  old  coun 
try  is  now  convulsed  by  the  forces  of  change,  and  the  moderate  outlook 
is  bewildered.  The  old  world  is  passing,  and  all  the  sweet  reasonable 
ness  of  which  the  Liberals  are  capable  does  not  make  any  difference; 
they  might  as  well  argue  with  the  hurricane  or  the  flood  or  the  earth 
quake. 

We  are  all  moderates  or  extremists  in  varying  degrees,  and  for  va 
rious  objects.  If  we  care  enough  for  anything,  we  are  likely  to  feel 
strongly  about  it,  to  be  extremist  about  it.  Otherwise  we  can  afford  a 
gracious  tolerance,  a  philosophical  moderation,  which  really  hides  to 
some  extent  our  indifference.  I  have  known  the  mildest  of  Moderates 
to  grow  very  aggressive  and  extremist  when  a  suggestion  was  made 
for  the  sweeping  away  of  certain  vested  interests  in  land.  Our  Liberal 
friends  represent  to  some  extent  the  prosperous  and  well-to-do.  They 

261 


can  afford  to  wait  for  Swaraj  and  need  not  excite  themselves  about  it. 
But  any  proposal  for  radical  social  change  disturbs  them  greatly,  and 
they  are  no  longer  moderate  or  sweetly  reasonable  about  it.  Thus  their 
moderation  is  really  confined  to  their  attitude  toward  the  British  Gov 
ernment,  and  they  nurse  the  hope  that  if  they  are  sufficiently  respectful 
and  compromising  perhaps,  as  a  reward  for  this  behavior,  they  might 
be  listened  to.  Inevitably  they  have  to  accept  the  British  viewpoint. 

I  write  of  Liberals,  but  what  I  write  applies  to  many  of  us  also  in 
the  Congress.  It  applies  even  more  to  the  Responsivists,1  who  have  out 
distanced  the  Liberals  in  their  moderation.  There  is  a  great  deal  of 
difference  between  the  average  Liberal  and  the  average  Congressman, 
and  yet  the  dividing  line  is  not  clear  and  definite.  Ideologically  there 
is  little  to  choose  between  the  advanced  Liberal  and  the  moderate  Con 
gressman.  But,  thanks  to  Gandhiji,  every  Congressman  has  kept  some 
touch  with  the  soil  and  the  people  of  the  country  and  has  dabbled  in 
action;  because  of  this  he  has  escaped  some  of  the  consequences  of  a 
vague  and  defective  idealogy.  Not  so  the  Liberals :  they  have  lost  touch 
with  both  the  old  and  the  new.  As  a  group  they  represent  a  vanishing 
species. 

Most  of  us,  I  suppose,  have  lost  the  old  pagan  feeling  and  not  gained 
the  new  insight.  Not  for  us  to  "have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the 
sea";  or  "hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn."  And  very  few  of 
us  are  fortunate  enough: 

To  see  a  World  in  a  Grain  of  Sand 
And  a  Heaven  in  a  Wild  flower, 
Hold  Infinity  in  the  palm  of  your  hand 
And  Eternity  in  an  hour. 

Not  for  most  of  us,  unhappily,  to  sense  the  mysterious  life  of  nature, 
to  hear  her  whisper  close  to  our  ears,  to  thrill  and  quiver  at  her  touch. 
Those  days  are  gone.  But,  though  we  may  not  see  the  sublime  in  na 
ture  as  we  used  to,  we  have  sought  to  find  it  in  the  glory  and  tragedy 
of  humanity,  in  its  mighty  dreams  and  inner  tempests,  its  pangs  and 
failures,  its  conflicts  and  misery,  and,  over  all  this,  its  faith  in  a  great 
destiny  and  a  realization  of  those  dreams.  That  has  been  some  recom 
pense  for  us  for  all  the  heartbreaks  that  such  a  search  involves,  and 
often  we  have  been  raised  above  the  pettiness  of  life.  But  many  have 
not  undertaken  this  search  and,  having  cut  themselves  adrift  from  the 
ancient  ways,  find  no  road  to  follow  in  the  present.  They  neither  dream 

aA  group  which  branched  off  from  the  Swaraj  party  some  years  before. — Ed. 

262 


nor  do  they  act.  They  have  no  understanding  of  human  convulsions 
like  the  great  French  Revolution  or  the  Russian  Revolution.  The  com 
plex,  swift,  and  cruel  eruptions  of  human  desires,  long  suppressed, 
frighten  them.  For  them  the  Bastille  has  not  yet  fallen. 

It  is  often  said  with  righteous  indignation  that  "patriotism  is  not  a 
monopoly  of  Congressmen."  The  same  phrase  is  repeated  again  and 
again  with  a  lack  of  originality  which  is  somewhat  distressing.  I  hope 
no  Congressman  has  ever  claimed  a  corner  on  this  emotion.  Certainly 
I  do  not  think  it  is  a  Congress  monopoly,  and  I  would  be  glad  to  make 
a  present  of  it  to  anyone  who  desired  it.  It  is  often  enough  the  refuge 
of  the  opportunist  and  the  careerist,  and  there  are  so  many  varieties  of 
it  to  suit  all  tastes,  all  interests,  all  classes.  If  Judas  were  alive  today, 
he  would  no  doubt  act  in  its  name.  Patriotism  is  no  longer  enough: 
we  want  something  higher,  wider,  and  nobler. 

Nor  is  moderation  enough  by  itself.  Restraint  is  good  and  is  the 
measure  of  our  culture,  but  behind  that  restraint  there  must  be  some 
thing  to  restrain  and  hold  back.  It  has  been,  and  is,  man's  destiny  to 
control  the  elements,  to  ride  the  thunderbolt,  to  bring  the  raging  fire 
and  the  rushing  and  tumbling  waters  to  his  use,  but  most  difficult  of 
all  for  him  has  been  to  restrain  and  hold  in  check  the  passions  that 
consume  him.  So  long  as  he  will  not  master  them,  he  cannot  enter 
fully  into  his  human  heritage.  But  are  we  to  restrain  the  legs  that  move 
not  and  the  hands  that  are  palsied? 

Most  of  those  who  have  'shaped  Congress  policy  during  the  last 
seventeen  years  have  come  from  the  middle  classes.  Liberal  or  Con 
gressmen,  they  have  come  from  the  same  class  and  have  grown  up  in 
the  same  environment.  Their  social  life  and  contacts  and  friendships 
have  been  similar,  and  there  was  little  difference  to  begin  with  between 
the  two  varieties  of  bourgeois  ideals  that  they  professed.  Temperamen 
tal  and  psychological  differences  began  to  separate  them,  and  they  began 
to  look  in  different  directions — one  group  more  toward  the  Govern 
ment  and  the  rich,  upper  middle  class,  the  other  toward  the  lower 
middle  classes.  The  ideology  still  remained  the  same,  the  objectives  did 
not  differ,  but  behind  the  second  group  there  was  now  the  push  of 
larger  numbers  from  the  market  place  and  the  humbler  professions  as 
well  as  the  unemployed  intelligentsia.  The  tone  changed;  it  was  no 
longer  respectful  and  polite,  but  strident  and  aggressive.  Lacking 
strength  to  act  effectively,  some  relief  was  found  in  strong  language. 
Frightened  by  this  new  development,  the  moderate  elements  dropped 
out  and  sought  safety  in  seclusion.  Even  so,  the  upper  middle  class  was 

263 


strongly  represented  in  the  Congress,  though  in  numbers  the  little 
bourgeoisie  was  predominant.  They  were  drawn  not  only  by  the  desire 
for  success  in  their  national  struggle,  but  because  they  sought  an  inner 
satisfaction  in  that  struggle.  They  sought  thereby  to  recover  their  lost 
pride  and  self-respect,  and  to  rehabilitate  their  shattered  dignity.  It  was 
the  usual  nationalist  urge  and,  though  this  was  common  to  all,  it  was 
here  that  the  temperamental  differences  between  the  Moderate  and 
the  Extremist  became  evident.  Gradually  the  lower  middle  class  began 
to  dominate  the  Congress,  and  later  the  peasantry  made  their  influence 
felt. 

As  the  Congress  became  more  and  more  the  representative  of  the 
rural  masses,  the  gulf  that  separated  it  from  the  Liberals  widened,  and 
it  became  almost  impossible  for  the  Liberal  to  understand  or  appreciate 
the  Congress  viewpoint.  It  is  not  easy  for  the  upper-class  drawing  room 
to  understand  the  humble  cottage  or  the  mud  hut.  Yet,  in  spite  of  these 
differences,  both  the  ideologies  were  nationalist  and  bourgeois;  the  va 
riation  was  one  of  degree,  not  of  kind.  In  the  Congress  many  people 
remained  to  the  last  who  would  have  been  quite  at  home  in  the  Liberal 
group. 

For  many  generations  the  British  treated  India  as  a  kind  of  enor 
mous  country  house  (after  the  old  English  fashion)  that  they  owned. 
They  were  the  gentry  owning  the  house  and  occupying  the  desirable 
parts  of  it,  while  the  Indians  were  consigned  to  the  servants'  hall,  the 
pantry,  and  the  kitchen.  As  in  every  proper  country  house,  there  was 
a  fixed  hierarchy  in  those  lower  regions — butler,  housekeeper,  cook, 
valet,  maid,  footman,  etc. — and  strict  precedence  was  observed  among 
them.  But  between  the  upper  and  lower  regions  of  the  house  there  was, 
socially  and  politically,  an  impassable  barrier.  The  fact  that  the  British 
Government  should  have  imposed  this  arrangement  upon  us  was  not 
surprising;  but  what  does  seem  surprising  is  that  we,  or  most  of  us, 
accepted  it  as  the  natural  and  inevitable  ordering  of  our  lives  and 
destiny.  We  developed  the  mentality  of  a  good  country-house  servant. 
Sometimes  we  were  treated  to  a  rare  honor — we  were  given  a  cup  of 
tea  in  the  drawing  room.  The  height  of  our  ambition  was  to  become 
respectable  and  to  be  promoted  individually  to  the  upper  regions. 
Greater  than  any  victory  of  arms  or  diplomacy  was  this  psychological 
triumph  of  the  British  in  India.  The  slave  began  to  think  as  a  slave, 
as  the  wise  men  of  old  had  said. 

Times  have  changed,  and  the  country-house  type  of  civilization  is 
not  accepted  willingly  now,  either  in  England  or  India.  But  still  there 

264 


remain  people  among  us  who  desire  to  stick  to  the  servants'  hall  and 
take  pride  in  the  gold  braid  and  livery  o£  their  service.  Others,  like  the 
Liberals,  accept  that  country  house  in  its  entirety,  admire  its  architec 
ture  and  the  whole  edifice,  but  look  forward  to  replacing  the  owners, 
one  by  one,  by  themselves.  They  call  this  Indianization.  For  them  the 
problem  is  one  of  changing  the  color  of  the  administration,  or  at  most 
having  a  new  administration.  They  never  think  in  terms  of  a  new 
State. 

For  them  Swaraj  means  that  everything  continues  as  before,  only 
with  a  darker  shade.  They  can  only  conceive  of  a  future  in  which  they, 
or  people  like  them,  will  play  the  principal  role  and  take  the  place  of 
the  English  high  officials;  in  which  there  are  the  same  types  of  services, 
government  departments,  legislatures,  trade,  industry — with  the  Indian 
Civil  Service  at  their  jobs;  the  princes  in  their  palaces,  occasionally 
appearing  in  fancy  dress  or  carnival  attire  with  all  their  jewels  glitter 
ing  to  impress  their  subjects;  the  landlords  claiming  special  protection, 
and  meanwhile  harassing  their  tenants;  the  moneylender,  with  his 
moneybags,  harassing  both  zamindar  and  tenant;  the  lawyer  with  his 
fees;  and  God  in  His  heaven. 

Essentially  their  oudook  is  based  on  the  maintenance  of  the  status 
quo,  and  the  changes  they  desire  can  almost  be  termed  personal  changes. 
And  they  seek  to  achieve  these  changes  by  a  slow  infiltration  with  the 
good  will  of  the  British.  The  whole  foundation  of  their  politics  and 
economics  rests  on  the  continuance  and  stability  of  the  British  Empire, 
Looking  on  this  Empire  as  unshakable,  at  least  for  a  considerable  time, 
they  adapt  themselves  to  it  and  accept  not  only  its  political  and  eco 
nomic  ideology  but  also,  to  a  large  extent,  its  moral  standards,  which 
have  all  been  framed  to  secure  the  continuance  of  British  dominance. 

The  Congress  attitude  differs  fundamentally  from  this  because  it 
seeks  a  new  State  and  not  just  a  different  administration.  What  that 
new  State  is  going  to  be  may  not  be  quite  clear  to  the  average  Con 
gressman,  and  opinions  may  differ  about  it.  But  it  is  common  ground 
in  the  Congress  (except  perhaps  for  a  moderate  fringe)  that  present 
conditions  and  methods  cannot  and  must  not  continue,  and  basic 
changes  are  essential.  Herein  lies  the  difference  between  Dominion 
status  and  independence.  The  former  envisages  the  same  old  structure, 
with  many  bonds  visible  and  invisible  tying  us  to  the  British  economic 
system;  the  latter  gives  us,  or  ought  to  give  us,  freedom  to  erect  a  new 
structure  to  suit  our  circumstances. 

It  is  not  a  question  of  an  implacable  and  irreconcilable  antagonism 

265 


to  England  and  the  English  people,  or  the  desire  to  break  from  them 
at  all  costs.  It  would  be  natural  enough  if  there  were  bad  blood  between 
India  and  England  after  what  has  happened.  "The  clumsiness  of  power 
spoils  the  key  and  uses  the  pickax,"  says  Tagore;  the  key  to  our  hearts 
was  destroyed  long  ago,  and  the  abundant  use  of  the  pickax  on  us 
has  not  made  us  partial  to  the  British.  But,  if  we  claim  to  serve  the 
larger  cause  of  India  and  humanity,  we  cannot  afford  to  be  carried 
away  by  our  momentary  passions.  And,  even  if  we  were  so  inclined, 
the  hard  training  which  Gandhiji  has  given  us  for  the  last  fifteen 
years  would  prevent  us.  I  write  this  sitting  in  a  British  prison,  and  for 
months  past  my  mind  has  been  full  of  anxiety,  and  I  have  perhaps 
suffered  more  during  this  solitary  imprisonment  than  I  have  done  in 
jail  before.  Anger  and  resentment  have  often  filled  my  mind  at  vari 
ous  happenings,  and  yet,  as  I  sit  here  and  look  deep  into  my  mind 
and  heart,  I  do  not  find  any  anger  against  England  or  the  English  peo 
ple.  I  dislike  British  imperialism,  and  I  resent  its  imposition  on  India; 
I  dislike  the  capitalist  system;  I  dislike  exceedingly  and  resent  the  way 
India  is  exploited  by  the  ruling  classes  of  Britain.  But  I  do  not  hold 
England  or  the  English  people  as  a  whole  responsible  for  this;  and, 
even  if  I  did,  I  do  not  think  it  would  make  much  difference,  for  it  is 
a  little  foolish  to  lose  one's  temper  at  or  to  condemn  a  whole  people. 
They  are  as  much  the  victims  of  circumstances  as  we  are. 

Personally,  I  owe  too  much  to  England  in  my  mental  make-up  ever 
to  feel  wholly  alien  to  her.  And,  do  what  I  will,  I  cannot  get  rid  of 
the  habits  of  mind,  and  the  standards  and  ways  of  judging  other  coun 
tries  as  well  as  life  generally,  which  I  acquired  at  school  and  college 
in  England.  My  predilections  (apart  from  the  political  ones)  are  in 
favor  of  England  and  the  English  people,  and,  if  I  have  become  what 
is  called  an  uncompromising  opponent  of  British  rule  in  India,  it  is 
almost  in  spite  of  these. 

It  is  their  rule,  their  domination,  to  which  we  object,  and  with  which 
we  cannot  compromise  willingly — not  the  English  people.  Let  us  by 
all  means  have  the  closest  contacts  with  the  English  and  other  foreign 
peoples.  We  want  fresh  air  in  India,  fresh  and  vital  ideas,  healthy  co 
operation;  we  have  grown  too  musty  with  age.  But,  if  the  English 
come  in  the  role  of  a  tiger  they  can  expect  no  friendship  or  co-operation. 
To  the  tiger  of  imperialism  there  will  be  only  the  fiercest  opposition, 
and  today  our  country  has  to  deal  with  that  ferocious  animal.  It  may 
be  possible  to  tame  the  wild  tiger  of  the  forest  and  to  charm  away  his 
native  ferocity,  but  there  is  no  such  possibility  of  taming  capitalism  and 

266 


imperialism  when  they  combine  and  swoop  down  on  an  unhappy  land. 

For  anyone  to  say  that  he  or  his  country  will  not  compromise  is,  in 
a  sense,  a  foolish  remark,  for  life  is  always  forcing  us  to  compromise. 
When  applied  to  another  country  or  people,  it  is  completely  foolish. 
But  there  is  truth  in  it  when  it  is  applied  to  a  system  or  a  particular 
set  of  circumstances,  and  then  it  becomes  something  beyond  human 
power  to  accomplish.  Indian  freedom  and  British  imperialism  are  two 
incompatibles,  and  neither  martial  law  nor  all  the  sugar  coating  in  the 
world  can  make  them  compatible  or  bring  them  together.  Only  with 
the  elimination  of  British  imperialism  from  India  will  conditions  be 
created  which  permit  of  real  Indo-British  co-operation. 

We  are  told  that  independence  is  a  narrow  creed  in  the  modern 
world,  which  is  increasingly  becoming  interdependent,  and  therefore 
in  demanding  independence  we  are  trying  to  put  the  clock  back.  Lib 
erals  and  pacifists  and  even  so-called  socialists  in  Britain  advance  this 
plea  and  chide  us  for  our  narrow  nationalism,  and  incidentally  suggest 
to  us  that  the  way  to  a  fuller  national  life  is  through  the  "British  Com 
monwealth  of  Nations."  It  is  curious  how  all  roads  in  England — 
liberalism,  pacifism,  socialism,  etc. — lead  to  the  maintenance  of  the 
Empire. 

I  do  not  know  what  India  will  be  like  or  what  she  will  do  when  she 
is  politically  free.  But  I  do  know  that  those  of  her  people  who  stand 
for  national  independence  today  stand  also  for  the  widest  internation 
alism.  For  a  socialist,  nationalism  can  have  no  meaning;  but  even  many 
of  the  nonsocialists  in  the  advanced  ranks  of  the  Congress  are  con 
firmed  internationalists.  If  we  claim  independence  today,  it  is  with  no 
desire  for  isolation.  On  the  contrary,  we  are  perfectly  willing  to  sur 
render  part  of  that  independence,  in  common  with  other  countries,  to 
a  real  international  order.  Any  imperial  system,  by  whatever  high- 
sounding  name  it  may  be  called,  is  an  enemy  of  such  an  order,  and 
it  is  not  through  such  a  system  that  world  co-operation  or  world  peace 
can  be  reached. 

Recent  developments  have  shown  all  over  the  world  how  the  various 
imperialist  systems  are  isolating  themselves  more  and  more  by  autarchy 
and  economic  imperialism.  Instead  of  the  growth  of  internationalism 
we  see  a  reversal  of  the  process.  The  reasons  for  this  are  not  difficult  to 
discover,  and  they  indicate  the  growing  weakness  of  the  present  eco 
nomic  order.  One  of  the  results  of  this  policy  is  that,  while  it  produces 
greater  co-operation  within  the  area  of  autarchy,  it  also  means  isolation 
from  the  rest  of  the  world.  For  India,  as  we  have  seen  by  the  Ottawa 

267 


and  other  decisions,  it  has  meant  a  progressive  lessening  of  our  ties  and 
contacts  with  other  countries.  We  have  become,  even  more  than  we 
were,  the  hangers-on  of  British  industry;  and  the  dangers  of  this  pol 
icy,  apart  from  the  immediate  harm  it  has  done  in  various  ways,  are 
obvious.  Thus  Dominion  status  seems  to  lead  to  isolation  and  not  to 
wider  international  contacts. 

Names  are  apt  to  mislead,  but  the  real  question  before  us  in  India 
is  whether  we  are  aiming  at  a  new  State  or  merely  at  a  new  adminis 
tration.  The  Liberal  answer  is  clear:  they  want  the  latter  and  nothing 
more.  Not  for  them  the  full-blooded  words:  Power,  Independence, 
Freedom,  Liberty;  they  sound  dangerous. 

This,  then,  is  their  objective,  and  this  is  to  be  reached  not  by  "direct 
action"  or  any  other  form  of  aggressive  action  but  by  a  display  of 
"wisdom,  experience,  moderation,  power  of  persuasion,  quiet  influ 
ence,  and  real  efficiency."  It  is  hoped  that  by  our  good  behavior  and 
our  good  work  we  shall  ultimately  induce  our  rulers  to  part  with 
power.  In  other  words,  they  resist  us  today  because  either  they  are 
irritated  against  us  on  account  of  our  aggressive  attitude,  or  they  doubt 
our  capacity,  or  both.  This  seems  a  rather  na'ive  analysis  of  imperial 
ism  and  the  present  situation.  That  brilliant  English  writer,  Professor 
R.  H.  Tawney,  has  written  an  appropriate  and  arresting  passage  deal 
ing  with  the  notion  of  gaining  power  in  stages  and  with  the  co-opera 
tion  of  the  ruling  classes.  He  refers  to  the  British  Labour  party,  but 
his  words  are  even  more  applicable  to  India,  for  in  England  they  have 
at  least  democratic  institutions,  where  the  will  of  the  majority  can,  in 
theory,  make  itself  felt.  Professor  Tawney  writes : 

"Onions  can  be  eaten  leaf  by  leaf,  but  you  cannot  skin  a  live  tiger 
paw  by  paw;  vivisection  is  its  trade,  and  it  does  the  skinning  first.  .  .  . 

"If  there  is  any  country  where  the  privileged  classes  are  simpletons, 
it  is  certainly  not  England.  The  idea  that  tact  and  amiability  in  pre 
senting  the  Labour  party's  case  can  hoodwink  them  into  the  belief 
that  it  is  their  case  also,  is  as  hopeless  as  an  attempt  to  bluff  a  sharp 
solicitor  out  of  a  property  of  which  he  holds  the  title  deeds.  The  plutoc 
racy  consists  of  agreeable,  astute,  forcible,  self-confident,  and,  when 
hard  pressed,  unscrupulous  people,  who  know  pretty  well  on  which 
side  their  bread  is  buttered,  and  intend  that  the  supply  of  butter  shall 
not  run  short.  ...  If  their  position  is  seriously  threatened,  they  will 
use  every  piece  on  the  board,  political  and  economic — the  House  of 
Lords,  the  Crown,  the  Press,  disaffection  in  the  Army,  financial  crisis, 
international  difficulties,  and  even,  as  newspaper  attacks  on  the  pound 

268 


in  1931  showed,  the  emigre  trick  of  injuring  one's  country  to  protect 
one's  pocket." 

In  every  democratic  country  today  there  is  an  argument  going  on 
as  to  whether  radical  economic  changes  can  be  brought  about  in  the 
ordinary  course  through  the  constitutional  machinery  at  their  disposal. 
Many  people  are  of  opinion  that  this  cannot  be  done,  and  some 
unusual  and  revolutionary  method  will  have  to  be  adopted.  For  our 
purpose  in  India  the  issue  of  this  argument  is  immaterial,  for  we  have 
no  constitutional  means  of  bringing  about  the  changes  we  desire. 
There  is  no  way  out  except  by  revolution  or  illegal  action.  What  then 
is  one  to  do?  Give  up  all  idea  of  change  and  resign  oneself  to  fate? 

The  position  today  in  India  is  even  more  extraordinary.  The  Execu 
tive  can  and  does  prevent  or  restrict  all  manner  of  public  activities. 
Any  activity  that  is,  in  its  opinion,  dangerous  for  it  is  prohibited.  Thus 
all  effective  public  activity  can  be  stopped.  Submission  to  this  means 
giving  up  all  public  work.  That  is  an  impossible  position  to  take  up. 

The  withdrawal  of  civil  disobedience  by  the  Congress  was  naturally 
welcomed  by  the  Liberals.  It  was  also  not  surprising  that  they  should 
take  credit  for  their  wisdom  in  having  kept  aloof  from  this  "foolish 
and  ill-advised  movement."  "Did  we  not  say  so?"  they  told  us.  It  was 
a  strange  argument.  When  we  stood  up  and  put  up  a  good  fight,  we 
were  knocked  down;  therefore,  the  moral  pointed  out  was  that  stand 
ing  up  is  a  bad  thing.  Crawling  is  best  and  safest.  It  is  quite  impos 
sible  to  be  knocked  down  or  to  fall  from  that  horizontal  position. 


XL 

INDIA  OLD  AND  NEW 

IT  WAS  NATURAL  and  inevitable  that  Indian  nationalism  should  resent 
alien  rule.  And  yet  it  was  curious  how  large  numbers  of  our  intelli 
gentsia,  to  the  end  of  the  nineteenth  century,  accepted,  consciously  or 
unconsciously,  the  British  ideology  of  empire.  They  built  their  own 
arguments  on  this,  and  only  ventured  to  criticize  some  of  its  outward 
manifestations.  History  and  economics  and  other  subjects  that  were 
taught  in  the  schools  and  colleges  were  written  entirely  from  the 
British  imperial  viewpoint,  and  laid  stress  on  our  numerous  failings 
in  the  past  and  present,  and  the  virtues  and  high  destiny  of  the  British. 

269 


We  accepted  to  some  extent  this  distorted  version,  and,  even  when  we 
resisted  it  instinctively,  we  were  influenced  by  it.  At  first  there  was  no 
intellectual  escape  from  it,  for  we  knew  no  other  facts  or  arguments, 
and  so  we  sought  relief  in  religious  nationalism,  in  the  thought  that  at 
least  in  the  sphere  of  religion  and  philosophy  we  were  second  to  no 
other  people.  We  comforted  ourselves  in  our  misfortune  and  degrada 
tion  with  the  notion  that  though  we  did  not  possess  the  outward  show 
and  glitter  of  the  West  we  had  the  real  inner  article,  which  was  far 
more  valuable  and  worth  having.  Vivekananda  and  others,  as  well  as 
the  interest  of  Western  scholars  in  our  old  philosophies,  gave  us  a 
measure  of  self-respect  again  and  roused  up  our  dormant  pride  in  our 
past. 

Gradually  we  began  to  suspect  and  examine  critically  British  state 
ments  about  our  past  and  present  conditions,  but  still  we  thought  and 
worked  within  the  framework  of  British  ideology.  If  a  thing  was  bad, 
it  would  be  called  "un-British";  if  a  Britisher  in  India  misbehaved,  the 
fault  was  his,  not  that  of  the  system.  But  the  collection  of  this  critical 
material  of  British  rule  in  India,  in  spite  of  the  moderate  outlook  of 
the  authors,  served  a  revolutionary  purpose  and  gave  a  political  and 
economic  foundation  to  our  nationalism.  Dadabhai  Naoroji's  Poverty 
and  Un-British  Rule  in  India,  and  books  by  Romesh  Dutt  and  William 
Digby  and  others,  thus  played  a  revolutionary  role  in  the  development 
of  our  nationalist  thought.  Further  researches  in  ancient  Indian  history 
revealed  brilliant  and  highly  civilized  periods  in  the  remote  past,  and 
we  read  of  these  with  great  satisfaction.  We  also  discovered  that  the 
British  record  in  India  was  very  different  from  what  we  had  been  led 
to  believe  from  their  history  books. 

Our  challenge  to  the  British  version  of  history,  economics,  and 
administration  in  India  grew,  and  yet  we  continued  to  function  within 
the  orbit  of  their  ideology.  That  was  the  position  of  Indian  nationalism 
as  a  whole  at  the  turn  of  the  century.  That  is  still  the  position  of  the 
Liberal  group  and  other  small  groups  as  well  as  a  number  of  moderate 
Congressmen,  who  go  forward  emotionally  from  time  to  time,  but 
intellectually  still  live  in  the  nineteenth  century.  Because  of  that  the 
Liberal  is  unable  to  grasp  the  idea  of  Indian  freedom,  for  the  two  are 
fundamentally  irreconcilable.  He  imagines  that  step  by  step  he  will  go 
up  to  higher  offices  and  will  deal  with  fatter  and  more  important  files. 
The  machinery  of  government  will  go  on  smoothly  as  before,  only  he 
will  be  at  the  hub,  and  somewhere  in  the  background,  without  intrud 
ing  themselves  too  much,  will  be  the  British  Army  to  give  him  pro- 

270 


tection  in  case  of  need.  That  is  his  idea  o£  Dominion  status  within  the 
Empire.  It  is  a  naive  notion  impossible  of  achievement,  for  the  price  of 
British  protection  is  Indian  subjection.  We  cannot  have  it  both  ways, 
even  if  that  was  not  degrading  to  the  self-respect  of  a  great  country. 
Sir  Frederick  Whyte  (no  partisan  of  Indian  nationalism)  says  in  a 
recent  book:1  "He  [the  Indian]  still  believes  that  England  will  stand 
between  him  and  disaster,  and  as  long  as  he  cherishes  this  delusion  he 
cannot  even  lay  the  foundation  of  his  own  ideal  of  self-government." 
Evidently  he  refers  to  the  Liberal  or  the  reactionary  and  communal 
types  of  Indians,  largely  with  whom  he  must  have  come  into  contact 
when  he  was  president  of  the  Indian  Legislative  Assembly.  This  is 
not  the  Congress  belief,  much  less  is  it  that  of  other  advanced  groups. 
They  agree  with  Sir  Frederick,  however,  that  there  can  be  no  freedom 
till  this  delusion  goes  and  India  is  left  to  face  disaster,  if  that  is  her 
fate,  by  herself.  The  complete  withdrawal  of  British  military  control 
of  India  will  be  the  beginning  of  Indian  freedom. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  the  Indian  intelligentsia  in  the  nineteenth 
century  should  have  succumbed  to  British  ideology;  what  is  surprising 
is  that  some  people  should  continue  to  suffer  that  delusion  even  after 
the  stirring  events  and  changes  of  the  twentieth  century.  In  the  nine 
teenth  century  the  British  ruling  classes  were  the  aristocrats  of  the 
world,  with  a  long  record  of  wealth  and  success  and  power  behind 
them.  This  long  record  and  training  gave  them  some  of  the  virtues  as 
well  as  failings  of  aristocracy.  We  in  India  can  comfort  ourselves  with 
the  thought  that  we  helped  substantially  during  the  last  century  and 
three-quarters  in  providing  the  wherewithal  and  the  training  for  this 
superior  state.  They  began  to  think  themselves — as  so  many  races  and 
nations  have  done — the  chosen  of  God,  and  their  Empire  an  earthly 
Kingdom  of  Heaven.  If  their  special  position  was  acknowledged  and 
their  superiority  not  challenged,  they  were  gracious  and  obliging,  pro 
vided  that  this  did  them  no  harm.  But  opposition  to  them  became 
opposition  to  the  divine  order,  and  as  such  was  a  deadly  sin  which 
must  be  suppressed. 

If  this  was  the  general  British  attitude  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  it  was 
most  conspicuous  in  India.  There  was  something  fascinating  about  the 
British  approach  to  the  Indian  problem,  even  though  it  was  singularly 
irritating.  The  calm  assurance  of  always  being  in  the  right  and  of  hav 
ing  borne  a  great  burden  worthily,  faith  in  their  racial  destiny  and 
their  own  brand  of  imperialism,  contempt  and  anger  at  the  unbelievers 

1  Sir  Frederick  Whyte:  The  Future  of  East  and  West, 

271 


and  sinners  who  challenged  the  foundations  o£  the  true  faith — there 
was  something  of  the  religious  temper  about  this  attitude.  Like  the 
Inquisitors  of  old,  they  were  bent  on  saving  us  regardless  of  our 
desires  in  the  matter.  Incidentally  they  profited  by  this  traffic  in  virtue, 
thus  demonstrating  the  truth  of  the  old  proverb:  "Honesty  is  the  best 
policy."  The  progress  of  India  became  synonymous  with  the  adaptation 
of  the  country  to  the  imperial  scheme  and  the  fashioning  of  chosen 
Indians  after  the  British  mold.  The  more  we  accepted  British  ideals 
and  objectives,  the  fitter  we  were  for  "self-government."  Freedom 
would  be  ours  as  soon  as  we  demonstrated  and  guaranteed  that  we 
would  use  it  only  in  accordance  with  British  wishes. 

Indians  and  Englishmen  are,  I  am  afraid,  likely  to  disagree  about 
the  record  of  British  rule  in  India,  That  is  perhaps  natural,  but  it  does 
come  as  a  shock  when  high  British  officials,  including  Secretaries  of 
State  for  India,  draw  fanciful  pictures  of  India's  past  and  present  and 
make  statements  which  have  no  basis  in  fact.  It  is  quite  extraordinary 
how  ignorant  English  people,  apart  from  some  experts  and  others,  are 
about  India.  If  facts  elude  them,  how  much  more  is  the  spirit  of  India 
beyond  their  reach?  They  seized  her  body  and  possessed  her,  but  it 
was  the  possession  of  violence.  They  did  not  know  her  or  try  to  know 
her.  They  never  looked  into  her  eyes,  for  theirs  were  averted  and  hers 
downcast  through  shame  and  humiliation.  After  centuries  of  contact 
they  face  each  other,  strangers  still,  full  of  dislike  for  each  other. 

Yet  India  with  all  her  poverty  and  degradation  had  enough  of  nobil 
ity  and  greatness  about  her;  and,  though  she  was  overburdened  with 
ancient  tradition  and  present  misery  and  her  eyelids  were  a  little 
weary,  she  had  "a  beauty  wrought  out  from  within  upon  the  flesh,  the 
deposit,  little  cell  by  cell,  of  strange  thoughts  and  fantastic  reveries  and 
exquisite  passions."  Behind  and  within  her  battered  body  one  could 
still  glimpse  a  majesty  of  soul.  Through  long  ages  she  had  traveled 
and  gathered  much  wisdom  on  the  way,  and  trafficked  with  strangers 
and  added  them  to  her  own  big  family,  and  witnessed  days  of  glory 
and  of  decay,  and  suffered  humiliation  and  terrible  sorrow,  and  seen 
many  a  strange  sight;  but  throughout  her  long  journey  she  had  clung 
to  her  immemorial  culture,  drawn  strength  and  vitality  from  it,  and 
shared  it  with  other  lands.  Like  a  pendulum  she  had  swung  up  and 
down;  she  had  ventured  with  the  daring  of  her  thought  to  reach  up 
to  the  heavens  and  unravel  their  mystery,  and  she  had  also  had  bitter 
experience  of  the  pit  of  hell.  Despite  the  woeful  accumulations  of 
superstition  and  degrading  custom  that  had  clung  to  her  and  borne 

272 


her  down,  she  had  never  wholly  forgotten  the  inspiration  that  some  of 
the  wisest  of  her  children,  at  the  dawn  of  history,  had  given  her  in  the 
Upanishads.  Their  keen  minds,  ever  restless  and  ever  striving  and 
exploring,  had  not  sought  refuge  in  blind  dogma  or  grown  compla 
cent  in  the  routine  observance  of  dead  forms  of  ritual  and  creed.  They 
had  demanded  not  a  personal  relief  from  suffering  in  the  present  or  a 
place  in  a  paradise  to  come,  but  light  and  understanding:  "Lead  me 
from  the  unreal  to  the  real,  lead  me  from  darkness  to  light,  lead  me 
from  death  to  immortality."  2  In  the  most  famous  of  the  prayers  recited 
daily  even  today  by  millions,  the  gayatri  mantra,  the  call  is  for  knowl 
edge,  for  enlightenment. 

Though  often  broken  up  politically,  her  spirit  always  guarded  a 
common  heritage,  and  in  her  diversity  there  was  ever  an  amazing 
unity.  Like  all  ancient  lands  she  was  a  curious  mixture  of  the  good  and 
bad,  but  the  good  was  hidden  and  had  to  be  sought  after,  while  the 
odor  of  decay  was  evident,  and  her  hot,  pitiless  sun  gave  full  publicity 
to  the  bad. 

There  is  some  similarity  between  Italy  and  India.  Both  are  ancient 
countries  with  long  traditions  of  culture  behind  them,  though  Italy  is 
a  newcomer  compared  to  India,  and  India  is  a  much  vaster  country. 
Both  were  split  up  politically,  and  yet  the  conception  of  Italia,  like  that 
of  India,  never  died,  and  in  all  their  diversity  the  unity  was  predomi 
nant.  In  Italy  the  unity  was  largely  a  Roman  unity,  for  that  great  city 
had  dominated  the  country  and  been  the  fount  and  symbol  of  unity. 
In  India  there  was  no  such  single  center  or  dominant  city,  although 
Benares  might  well  be  called  the  Eternal  City  of  the  East,  not  only 
for  India  but  also  for  Eastern  Asia.  But,  unlike  Rome,  Benares  never 
dabbled  in  empire  or  thought  of  temporal  power.  Indian  culture  was 
so  widespread  all  over  India  that  no  part  of  the  country  could  be  called 
the  heart  of  that  culture.  From  Cape  Comorin  to  Amaranath  and 
Badrinath  in  the  Himalayas,  from  Dwarka  to  Puri,  the  same  ideas 
coursed;  and,  if  there  was  a  clash  of  ideas  in  one  place,  the  noise  of  it 
soon  reached  distant  parts  of  the  country. 

Just  as  Italy  gave  the  gift  of  culture  and  religion  to  Western  Europe, 
India  did  so  to  Eastern  Asia,  though  China  was  as  old  and  venerable 
as  India.  And,  even  when  Italy  was  lying  prostrate  politically,  her  life 
coursed  through  the  veins  of  Europe. 

It  was  Metternich  who  called  Italy  a  "geographical  expression,"  and 
many  a  would-be  Metternich  has  used  that  phrase  for  India;  strangely 

1  Brihadaranyal^  Upanishad,  i,  3,  27. 

273 


enough,  there  is  a  similarity  even  in  their  geographical  positions  in  the 
two  continents.  More  interesting  is  the  comparison  o£  England  with 
Austria,  for  has  not  England  of  the  twentieth  century  been  compared 
to  Austria  of  the  nineteenth,  proud  and  haughty  and  imposing  still, 
but  with  the  roots  that  gave  strength  shriveling  up  and  decay  eating 
its  way  into  the  mighty  fabric? 

It  is  curious  how  one  cannot  resist  the  tendency  to  give  an  anthro 
pomorphic  form  to  a  country.  Such  is  the  force  of  habit  and  early  asso 
ciations.  India  becomes  Bharat  Mata,  Mother  India,  a  beautiful  lady, 
very  old  but  ever  youthful  in  appearance,  sad-eyed  and  forlorn,  cruelly 
treated  by  aliens  and  outsiders,  and  calling  upon  her  children  to  pro 
tect  her.  Some  such  picture  rouses  the  emotions  of  hundreds  of  thou 
sands  and  drives  them  to  action  and  sacrifice.  And  yet  India  is  in  the 
main  the  peasant  and  the  worker,  not  beautiful  to  look  at,  for  poverty 
is  not  beautiful.  Does  the  beautiful  lady  of  our  imaginations  represent 
the  bare-bodied  and  bent  workers  in  the  fields  and  factories?  Or  the 
small  group  of  those  who  have  from  ages  past  crushed  the  masses  and 
exploited  them,  imposed  cruel  customs  on  them  and  made  many  of 
them  even  untouchable?  We  seek  to  cover  truth  by  the  creatures  of 
our  imaginations  and  endeavor  to  escape  from  reality  to  a  world  of 
dreams. 

And  yet,  despite  these  different  classes  and  their  mutual  conflicts, 
there  was  a  common  bond  which  united  them  in  India,  and  one  is 
amazed  at  its  persistence  and  tenacity  and  enduring  vitality.  What  was 
this  strength  due  to?  Not  merely  the  passive  strength  and  weight  of 
inertia  and  tradition,  great  as  these  always  are.  There  was  an  active 
sustaining  principle,  for  it  resisted  successfully  powerful  outside  influ 
ences  and  absorbed  internal  forces  that  rose  to  combat  it.  And  yet  with 
all  its  strength  it  could  not  preserve  political  freedom  or  endeavor  to 
bring  about  political  unity.  These  latter  do  not  appear  to  have  been 
considered  worth  much  trouble;  their  importance  was  very  foolishly 
ignored,  and  we  have  suffered  for  this  neglect.  Right  through  history 
the  old  Indian  ideal  did  not  glorify  political  and  military  triumph,  and 
it  looked  down  upon  money  and  the  professional  money-making  class. 
Honor  and  wealth  did  not  go  together,  and  honor  was  meant  to  go,  at 
least  in  theory,  to  the  men  who  served  the  community  with  little  in  the 
shape  of  financial  reward. 

The  old  culture  managed  to  live  through  many  a  fierce  storm  and 
tempest,  but,  though  it  kept  its  outer  form,  it  lost  its  real  content. 
Today  it  is  fighting  silently  and  desperately  against  a  new  and  all- 

274 


powerful  opponent — the  bania  civilization  of  the  capitalist  West.  It  will 
succumb  to  this  newcomer,  for  the  West  brings  science,  and  science 
brings  food  for  the  hungry  millions.  But  the  West  also  brings  an  anti 
dote  to  the  evils  of  this  cut-throat  civilization — the  principles  of  social 
ism,  of  co-operation,  and  service  to  the  community  for  the  common 
good.  This  is  not  so  unlike  the  old  Brahman  ideal  of  service,  but  it 
means  the  brahmanization  (not  in  the  religious  sense,  of  course)  of  all 
classes  and  groups  and  the  abolition  of  class  distinctions.  It  may  be  that 
when  India  puts  on  her  new  garment,  as  she  must,  for  the  old  is  torn 
and  tattered,  she  will  have  it  cut  in  this  fashion,  so  as  to  make  it  con 
form  both  to  present  conditions  and  her  old  thought.  The  ideas  she 
adopts  must  become  racy  to  her  soil. 


XLI 

THE  RECORD  OF  BRITISH  RULE 

WHAT  HAS  BEEN  the  record  of  British  rule  in  India?  I  doubt  if  it  is 
possible  for  any  Indian  or  Englishman  to  take  an  objective  and  dis 
passionate  view  of  this  long  record.  And,  even  if  this  were  possible,  it 
would  be  still  more  difficult  to  weigh  and  measure  the  psychological 
and  other  immaterial  factors.  We  are  told  that  British  rule  "has  given 
to  India  that  which  throughout  the  centuries  she  never  possessed,  a 
government  whose  authority  is  unquestioned  in  any  part  of  the  sub 
continent";  it  has  established  the  rule  of  law  and  a  just  and  efficient 
administration;  it  has  brought  to  India  Western  conceptions  of  parlia 
mentary  government  and  personal  liberties;  and  "by  transforming 
British  India  into  a  single  unitary  state  it  has  engendered  amongst 
Indians  a  sense  of  political  unity"  and  thus  fostered  the  first  beginnings 
of  nationalism.1  That  is  the  British  case,  and  there  is  much  truth  in 
it,  though  the  rule  of  law  and  personal  liberties  have  not  been  evident 
for  many  years. 

The  Indian  survey  of  this  period  lays  stress  on  many  other  factors, 
and  points  out  the  injury,  material  and  spiritual,  that  foreign  rule  has 
brought  us.  The  viewpoint  is  so  different  that  sometimes  the  very 
thing  that  is  commended  by  the  British  is  condemned  by  Indians.  As 

1Tlie  quotations  are  from  the  Report  of  the  Joint  Parliamentary  Committee  on  Indian 
Constitutional  Reform  (1934). 

275 


Dr.  Ananda  Coomaraswamy  writes:  "One  of  the  most  remarkable 
features  of  British  rule  in  India  is  that  the  greatest  injuries  inflicted 
upon  the  Indian  people  have  the  outward  appearance  of  blessings." 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  changes  that  have  taken  place  in  India  dur 
ing  the  last  century  or  more  have  been  world  changes  common  to  most 
countries  in  the  East  and  West.  The  growth  of  industrialism  in  western 
Europe,  and  later  on  in  the  rest  of  the  world,  brought  nationalism  and 
the  strong  unitary  state  in  its  train  everywhere.  The  British  can  take 
credit  for  having  first  opened  India's  window  to  the  West  and  brought 
her  one  aspect  of  Western  industrialism  and  science.  But  having  done 
so  they  throttled  the  further  industrial  growth  of  the  country  till 
circumstances  forced  their  hands.  India  was  already  the  meeting  place 
of  two  cultures,  the  western  Asiatic  culture  of  Islam  and  the  eastern, 
her  own  product,  which  spread  to  the  Far  East.  And  now  a  third  and 
more  powerful  impulse  came  from  further  west,  and  India  became  a 
focal  point  and  a  battleground  for  various  old  and  new  ideas.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  this  third  impulse  would  have  triumphed  and 
thus  solved  many  of  India's  old  problems,  but  the  British,  who  had 
themselves  helped  in  bringing  it,  tried  to  stop  its  further  progress. 
They  prevented  our  industrial  growth  and  thus  delayed  our  political 
growth,  and  preserved  all  the  out-of-date  feudal  and  other  relics  they 
could  find  in  the  country.  They  even  froze  up  our  changing  and  to 
some  extent  progressing  laws  and  customs  at  the  stage  they  found 
them,  and  made  it  difficult  for  us  to  get  out  of  their  shackles.  It  was 
not  with  their  good  will  or  assistance  that  the  bourgeoisie  grew  in 
India.  But  after  introducing  the  railway  and  other  products  of  indus 
trialism  they  could  not  stop  the  wheel  of  change;  they  could  only 
check  it  and  slow  it  down,  and  this  they  did  to  their  own  manifest 
advantage. 

"On  this  solid  foundation  the  majestic  structure  of  the  Government 
of  India  rests,  and  it  can  be  claimed  with  certainty  that  in  the  period 
which  has  elapsed  since  1858  when  the  Crown  assumed  supremacy 
over  all  the  territories  of  the  East  India  Company,  the  educational  and 
material  progress  of  India  has  been  greater  than  it  was  ever  within  her 
power  to  achieve  during  any  other  period  of  her  long  and  checkered 
history."  2  This  statement  is  not  so  self-evident  as  it  appears  to  be,  and 
it  has  often  been  stated  that  literacy  actually  went  down  with  the 
coming  of  British  rule.  But,  even  if  the  statement  was  wholly  true,  it 
amounts  to  a  comparison  of  the  modern  industrial  age  with  past  ages. 

*  Report  of  the  Joint  Parliamentary  Committee  (1934). 

276 


In  almost  every  country  in  the  world  the  educational  and  material 
progress  has  been  tremendous  during  the  past  century  because  of  sci 
ence  and  industrialism,  and  it  may  be  said  with  assurance  of  any  such 
country  that  progress  of  this  kind  "has  been  greater  than  was  ever 
within  her  power  to  achieve  during  any  other  period  of  her  long  and 
checkered  history" — though  perhaps  that  country's  history  may  not  be 
a  long  one  in  comparison  with  Indian  history.  Are  we  needlessly  can 
tankerous  and  perverse  if  we  suggest  that  some  such  technical  progress 
would  have  come  to  us  anyhow  in  this  industrial  age,  and  even  with 
out  British  rule  ?  And,  indeed,  if  we  compare  our  lot  with  many  other 
countries,  may  we  not  hazard  the  guess  that  such  progress  might  have 
been  greater  if  we  had  not  had  to  contend  against  a  stifling  of  that 
progress  by  the  British  themselves?  Railways,  telegraphs,  telephones, 
wireless,  and  the  like  are  hardly  tests  of  the  goodness  or  beneficence  of 
British  rule.  They  were  welcome  and  necessary,  and,  because  the  Brit 
ish  happened  to  be  the  agents  who  brought  them  first,  we  should  be 
grateful  to  them.  But  even  these  heralds  of  industrialism  came  to  us 
primarily  for  the  strengthening  of  British  rule.  They  were  the  veins 
and  arteries  through  which  the  nation's  blood  should  have  coursed, 
increasing  its  trade,  carrying  its  produce,  and  bringing  new  life  and 
wealth  to  its  millions.  It  is  true  that  in  the  long  run  some  such  result 
was  likely,  but  they  were  designed  and  worked  for  another  purpose — 
to  strengthen  the  imperial  hold  and  to  capture  markets  for  British 
goods — which  they  succeeded  in  achieving.  I  am  all  in  favor  of  indus 
trialization  and  the  latest  methods  of  transport,  but  sometimes,  as  I 
rushed  across  the  Indian  plains,  the  railway,  that  life-giver,  has  almost 
seemed  to  me  like  iron  bands  confining  and  imprisoning  India. 

The  British  conception  of  ruling  India  was  the  police  conception  of 
the  State.  Government's  job  was  to  protect  the  State  and  leave  the 
rest  to  others.  Their  public  finance  dealt  with  military  expenditure, 
police,  civil  administration,  interest  on  debt.  The  economic  needs  of 
the  citizens  were  not  looked  after,  and  were  sacrificed  to  British  inter 
ests.  The  cultural  and  other  needs  of  the  people,  except  for  a  tiny 
handful,  were  entirely  neglected.  The  changing  conceptions  of  public 
finance  which  brought  free  and  universal  education,  improvement  of 
public  health,  care  of  poor  and  feeble-minded,  insurance  of  workers 
against  illness,  old  age,  unemployment,  etc.,  in  other  countries,  were 
almost  entirely  beyond  the  ken  of  the  Government.  It  could  not  in 
dulge  in  these  spending  activities,  for  its  tax  system  was  most  regres 
sive,  taking  a  much  larger  proportion  of  small  incomes  than  of  the 

277 


larger  ones,  and  its  expenditure  on  its  protective  and  administrative 
functions  was  terribly  heavy  and  swallowed  up  most  of  the  revenue. 

The  outstanding  feature  of  British  rule  was  their  concentration  on 
everything  that  went  to  strengthen  their  political  and  economic  hold 
on  the  country.  Everything  else  was  incidental.  If  they  built  up  a  pow 
erful  central  government  and  an  efficient  police  force,  that  was  an 
achievement  for  which  they  can  take  credit,  but  the  Indian  people  can 
hardly  congratulate  themselves  on  it.  Unity  is  a  good  thing,  but  unity 
in  subjection  is  hardly  a  thing  to  be  proud  of.  The  very  strength  of  a 
despotic  government  may  become  a  greater  burden  for  a  people;  and 
a  police  force,  no  doubt  useful  in  many  ways,  can  be,  and  has  been 
often  enough,  turned  against  the  very  people  it  is  supposed  to  protect. 

Britain's  supremacy  in  India  brought  us  peace,  and  India  was  cer 
tainly  in  need  of  peace  after  the  troubles  and  misfortunes  that  followed 
the  break-up  of  the  Moghal  empire.  Peace  is  a  precious  commodity, 
necessary  for  any  progress,  and  it  was  welcome  to  us  when  it  came. 
But  even  peace  can  be  purchased  at  too  great  a  price,  and  we  can  have 
the  perfect  peace  of  the  grave,  and  the  absolute  safety  of  a  cage  or  of 
prison.  Or  peace  may  be  the  sodden  despair  of  men  unable  to  better 
themselves.  The  peace  which  is  imposed  by  an  alien  conqueror  has 
hardly  the  restful  and  soothing  qualities  o£  the  real  article. 

It  is  a  futile  task  to  consider  the  "i£s"  and  possibilities  of  history. 
I  feel  sure  that  it  was  a  good  thing  for  India  to  come  in  contact  with 
the  scientific  and  industrial  West.  Science  was  the  great  gift  of  the 
West;  India  lacked  this,  and  without  it  she  was  doomed  to  decay. 
The  manner  of  our  contacts  was  fortunate,  and  yet,  perhaps,  only 
a  succession  of  violent  shocks  could  shake  us  out  of  our  torpor.  From 
this  point  of  view  the  Protestant,  individualistic,  Anglo-Saxon  English 
were  suitable,  for  they  were  more  different  from  us  than  most  other 
Westerners,  and  could  give  us  greater  shocks. 

They  gave  us  political  unity,  and  that  was  a  desirable  thing;  but 
whether  we  had  this  unity  or  not,  Indian  nationalism  would  have 
grown  and  demanded  that  unity. 

The  political  unity  of  India  was  achieved  incidentally  as  a  side 
product  of  the  Empire's  advance.  In  later  years,  when  that  unity  allied 
itself  to  nationalism  and  challenged  alien  rule,  we  witnessed  the  delib 
erate  promotion  of  disunity  and  sectarianism,  formidable  obstacles  to 
our  future  progress. 

What  a  long  time  it  is  since  the  British  came  here,  a  century  and 
three-quarters  since  they  became  dominant!  They  had  a  free  hand,  as 


despotic  governments  have,  and  a  magnificent  opportunity  to  mold 
India  according  to  their  desire.  During  these  years  the  world  has 
changed  out  of  all  recognition — England,  Europe,  America,  Japan. 
The  insignificant  American  colonies  bordering  the  Atlantic  in  the 
eighteenth  century  constitute  today  the  wealthiest,  the  most  powerful 
and  technically  the  most  advanced  nation;  the  vast  territories  of  the 
U.S.S.R.,  where  till  only  yesterday  the  dead  hand  of  the  Tsar's  govern 
ment  suppressed  and  stifled  all  growth,  now  pulsate  with  a  new  life 
and  build  a  new  world  before  our  eyes.  There  have  been  big  changes 
in  India  also,  and  the  country  is  very  different  from  what  it  was  in 
the  eighteenth  century — railways,  irrigation  works,  factories,  schools 
and  colleges,  huge  government  offices,  etc.,  etc. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  these  changes,  what  is  India  like  today  ?  A  servile 
state,  with  its  splendid  strength  caged  up,  hardly  daring  to  breathe 
freely,  governed  by  strangers  from  afar;  her  people  poor  beyond  com 
pare,  short-lived  and  incapable  of  resisting  disease  and  epidemic;  illiter 
acy  rampant;  vast  areas  devoid  of  all  sanitary  or  medical  provision; 
unemployment  on  a  prodigious  scale,  both  among  the  middle  classes 
and  the  masses.  Freedom,  democracy,  socialism,  communism  are,  we 
are  told,  the  slogans  of  impractical  idealists,  doctrinaires,  or  knaves; 
the  test  must  be  one  of  the  well-being  of  the  people  as  a  whole.  That 
is  indeed  a  vital  test,  and  by  that  test  India  makes  a  terribly  poor  show 
today.  We  read  of  great  schemes  of  unemployment  relief  and  the  al 
leviation  of  distress  in  other  countries;  what  of  our  scores  of  millions 
of  unemployed  and  the  distress  that  is  widespread  and  permanent? 
We  read  also  of  housing  schemes  elsewhere;  where  are  the  houses  of 
hundreds  of  millions  of  our  people,  who  live  in  mud  huts  or  have  no 
shelter  at  all?  May  we  not  envy  the  lot  of  other  countries  where  edu 
cation,  sanitation,  medical  relief,  cultural  facilities,  and  production 
advance  rapidly  ahead,  while  we  remain  where  we  were,  or  plod  wear 
ily  along  at  the  pace  of  a  snail  ?  Russia  in  a  brief  dozen  years  of  won 
derful  effort  has  almost  ended  illiteracy  in  her  vast  territories  and  has 
evolved  a  fine  and  up-to-date  system  of  education,  in  touch  with  the 
life  of  the  masses.  Backward  Turkey,  under  the  Ataturk,  Mustapha 
Kemal's,  leadership,  has  also  made  giant  strides  toward  widespread 
literacy. 

Indians  have  been  accused  of  talking  too  much  and  doing  little.  It 
is  a  just  charge.  But  may  we  not  express  our  wonder  at  the  inexhausti 
ble  capacity  of  the  British  for  committees  and  commissions,  each  of 
which,  after  long  labor,  produces  a  learned  report— "a  great  State  docu- 

279 


ment" — which  is  duly  praised  and  pigeonholed?  And  so  we  get  the 
sensation  of  moving  ahead,  of  progress,  and  yet  have  the  advantage  of 
remaining  where  we  were.  Honor  is  satisfied,  and  vested  interests  re 
main  untouched  and  secure.  Other  countries  discuss  how  to  get  on; 
we  discuss  checks  and  brakes  and  safeguards  lest  we  go  too  fast. 

"The  Imperial  splendor  became  the  measure  of  the  people's  poverty," 
so  we  are  told  (by  the  Joint  Parliamentary  Committee,  1934)  of  the 
Moghal  times.  It  is  a  just  observation,  but  may  we  not  apply  the  same 
measure  today?  What  of  New  Delhi  today  with  its  viceregal  pomp 
and  pageantry,  and  the  provincial  governors  with  all  their  ostentation  ? 
And  all  this  with  a  background  of  abject  and  astonishing  poverty.  The 
contrast  hurts,  and  it  is  a  little  difficult  to  imagine  how  sensitive  men 
can  put  up  with  it.  India  today  is  a  poor  and  dismal  sight  behind  all 
the  splendors  of  the  imperial  frontage.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  patch 
work  and  superficiality,  and  behind  it  the  unhappy  petty  bourgeoisie, 
crushed  more  and  more  by  modern  conditions.  Further  back  come  the 
workers,  living  miserably  in  grinding  poverty,  and  then  the  peasant, 
that  symbol  of  India,  whose  lot  it  is  to  be  "born  to  Endless  Night." 

It  would  be  absurd  to  cast  the  blame  for  all  India's  ills  on  the 
British.  That  responsibility  must  be  shouldered  by  us,  and  we  may  not 
shirk  it;  it  is  unseemly  to  blame  others  for  the  inevitable  consequences 
of  our  own  weaknesses.  An  authoritarian  system  of  government,  and 
especially  one  that  is  foreign,  must  encourage  a  psychology  of  subservi 
ence  and  try  to  limit  the  mental  outlook  and  horizon  of  the  people.  It 
must  crush  much  that  is  finest  in  youth— enterprise,  spirit  of  adven 
ture,  originality,  "pep" — and  encourage  sneakiness,  rigid  conformity, 
and  a  desire  to  cringe  and  please  the  bosses.  Such  a  system  does  not 
bring  out  the  real  service  mentality,  the  devotion  to  public  service  or 
to  ideals;  it  picks  out  the  least  public-spirited  persons  whose  sole  objec 
tive  is  to  get  on  in  life.  We  see  what  a  class  the  British  attract  to- 
themselves  in  India!  Some  of  them  are  intellectually  keen  and  capable 
of  good  work.  They  drift  to  government  service  or  semigovernment 
service  because  of  lack  of  opportunity  elsewhere,  and  gradually  they 
tone  down  and  become  just  parts  of  the  big  machine,  their  minds 
imprisoned  by  the  dull  routine  of  work.  They  develop  the  qualities  of 
a  bureaucracy-— "a  competent  knowledge  of  clerkship  and  the  diplo 
matic  art  of  keeping  office."  At  the  highest  they  have  a  passive  devotion 
to  the  public  service.  There  is,  or  can  be,  no  flaming  enthusiasm.  That 
is  not  possible  under  a  foreign  government. 

But,  apart  from  these,  the  majority  of  petty  officials  are  not  an  admir- 

280 


able  lot,  for  they  have  learned  only  to  cringe  to  their  superiors  and 
bully  their  inferiors.  The  fault  is  not  theirs.  That  is  the  training  the 
system  gives  them.  And  if  sycophancy  and  nepotism  flourish,  as  they 
often  do,  is  it  to  be  wondered  at?  They  have  no  ideals  in  service;  the 
haunting  fear  of  unemployment  and  consequent  starvation  pursues 
them,  and  their  chief  concern  is  to  hold  on  to  their  jobs  and  get  other 
jobs  for  their  relatives  and  friends.  Where  the  spy  and  that  most  odious 
of  creatures,  the  informer,  always  hover  in  the  background,  it  is  not 
easy  to  develop  the  more  desirable  virtues  in  a  people. 

Recent  developments  have  made  it  even  more  difficult  for  sensitive, 
public-spirited  men  to  join  government  service.  The  Government  does 
not  want  them,  and  they  do  not  wish  to  associate  with  it  too  closely, 
unless  compelled  by  economic  circumstance. 

But,  as  all  the  world  knows,  it  is  the  white  man  who  bears  the  bur 
den  of  Empire,  not  the  brown.  We  have  various  imperial  services  to 
carry  on  the  imperial  tradition,  and  a  sufficiency  of  safeguards  to  pro 
tect  their  special  privileges — all,  we  are  told,  in  the  interests  of  India. 
It  is  remarkable  how  the  good  of  India  seems  to  be  tied  up  with  the 
obvious  interests  and  advancement  of  these  services.  If  any  privilege 
or  prize  post  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service  is  taken  away,  we  are  told 
that  inefficiency  and  corruption  will  result.  If  the  reserved  jobs  for  the 
Indian  Medical  Service  are  reduced,  this  becomes  a  "menace  to  India's 
health."  And  of  course  if  the  British  element  in  the  Army  is  touched, 
all  manner  of  terrible  perils  confront  us. 

I  think  there  is  some  truth  in  this :  that  if  the  superior  officials  sud 
denly  went  away  and  left  their  departments  in  charge  of  their  subordi 
nates,  there  would  be  a  fall  in  efficiency.  But  that  is  because  the  whole 
system  has  been  built  this  way,  and  the  subordinates  are  not  by  any 
means  the  best  men,  nor  have  they  ever  been  made  to  shoulder  respon 
sibility.  I  feel  convinced  that  there  is  abundant  good  material  in  India, 
and  it  could  be  available  within  a  fairly  short  period  if  proper  steps 
were  taken.  But  that  means  a  complete  change  in  our  governmental 
and  social  outlook.  It  means  a  new  State. 

As  it  is,  we  are  told  that  whatever  changes  in  the  constitutional  ap 
paratus  may  come  our  way,  the  rigid  framework  of  the  great  services 
which  guard  and  shelter  us  will  continue  as  before.  Hierophants  of 
the  sacred  mysteries  of  government,  they  will  guard  the  temple  and 
prevent  the  vulgar  from  entering  its  holy  precincts.  Gradually,  as  we 
make  ourselves  worthy  of  the  privilege,  they  will  remove  the  veils  one 

281 


after  another,  till,  in  some  future  age,  even  the  holy  of  holies  stands 
uncovered  to  our  wondering  and  reverent  eyes. 

Of  all  these  imperial  services,  the  Indian  Civil  Service  holds  first 
place,  and  to  it  must  largely  go  the  credit  or  discredit  for  the  function 
ing  of  government  in  India.  We  have  been  frequendy  told  of  the  many 
virtues  of  this  Service,  and  its  greatness  in  the  imperial  scheme  has 
almost  become  a  maxim.  Its  unchallenged  position  of  authority  in 
India  with  the  almost  autocratic  power  that  this  gives,  as  well  as  the 
praise  and  boosting  which  it  receives  in  ample  measure,  cannot  be 
wholly  good  for  the  mental  equilibrium  of  any  individual  or  group. 
With  all  my  admiration  for  the  Service,  I  am  afraid  I  must  admit  that 
it  is  peculiarly  susceptible,  both  individually  and  as  a  whole,  to  that  old 
and  yet  somewhat  modern  disease,  paranoia. 

It  would  be  idle  to  deny  the  good  qualities  of  the  Indian  Civil 
Service,  for  we  are  not  allowed  to  forget  them,  but  so  much  bunkum 
has  been  and  is  said  about  the  Service  that  I  sometimes  feel  that  a 
little  debunking  would  be  desirable.  The  American  economist,  Veblen, 
has  called  the  privileged  classes  the  "kept  classes."  I  think  it  would 
be  equally  true  to  call  the  Indian  Civil  Service,  as  well  as  the  other 
imperial  services,  the  "kept  services."  They  are  a  very  expensive  luxury. 

It  is  perfectly  true  that  the  Service  has,  as  a  whole,  kept  up  a  certain 
standard,  though  that  standard  is  necessarily  one  of  mediocrity,  and 
has  occasionally  thrown  up  exceptional  men.  More  could  hardly  be 
expected  of  any  such  service.  As  a  group  their  power  is  practically  abso 
lute,  subject  only  in  theory  to  a  control  by  the  British  Parliament. 
"Power  corrupts,"  Lord  Acton  has  told  us,  "and  absolute  power  cor 
rupts  absolutely." 

The  members  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service  were  intellectually  and 
emotionally  not  prepared  for  the  great  changes  taking  place  in  India. 
They  lived  in  a  narrow,  circumscribed  world  of  their  own — Anglo- 
Indian — which  was  neither  England  nor  India.  They  had  no  apprecia 
tion  of  the  forces  at  work  in  contemporary  society.  In  spite  of  their 
amusing  assumption  of  being  the  trustees  and  guardians  of  the  Indian 
masses,  they  knew  little  about  them  and  even  less  about  the  new 
aggressive  bourgeoisie.  They  judged  Indians  from  the  sycophants  and 
office  seekers  who  surrounded  them  and  dismissed  others  as  agitators 
and  knaves.  Their  knowledge  of  postwar  changes  all  over  the  world, 
and  especially  in  the  economic  sphere,  was  of  the  slightest,  and  they 
were  too  much  in  a  rut  to  adjust  themselves  to  changing  conditions. 

282 


They  did  not  realize  that  the  order  they  represented  was  out  of  date 
under  modern  conditions. 

Yet  that  order  will  continue  so  long  as  British  imperialism  continues, 
and  this  is  powerful  enough  still  and  has  able,  resourceful  leaders.  The 
British  Government  in  India  is  like  a  tooth  that  is  decaying  but  is  still 
strongly  imbedded.  It  is  painful,  but  it  cannot  be  easily  pulled  out. 
The  pain  is  likely  to  continue,  and  even  grow  worse,  till  the  tooth  is 
taken  out  or  falls  out  itself. 

The  underlying  assumption  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service  is  that  they 
discharge  their  duties  most  efficiently,  and  therefore  they  can  lay  every 
stress  on  their  claims,  which  are  many  and  varied.  If  India  is  poor,  that 
is  the  fault  of  her  social  customs,  her  banias  and  moneylenders,  and, 
above  all,  her  enormous  population.  The  greatest  bania  of  all,  the  Brit 
ish  Government  in  India,  is  conveniently  ignored.  And  what  they  pro 
pose  to  do  about  this  population  I  do  not  know,  for  in  spite  of  a  great 
deal  of  help  received  from  famines,  epidemics,  and  a  high  death  rate 
generally,  the  population  is  still  overwhelming.  Birth  control  is  pro 
posed,  and  I,  for  one,  am  entirely  in  favor  of  the  spread  of  the  knowl 
edge  and  methods  of  birth  control.  But  the  use  of  these  methods  itself 
requires  a  much  higher  standard  of  living  for  the  masses,  some  meas 
ure  of  general  education,  and  innumerable  clinics  all  over  the  country. 
Under  present  conditions  birth-control  methods  are  completely  out  of 
reach  for  the  masses.  The  middle  classes  can  profit  by  them  as,  I 
believe,  they  are  doing  to  a  growing  extent. 

But  this  argument  of  overpopulation  is  deserving  of  further  notice. 
The  problem  today  all  over  the  world  is  not  one  of  lack  of  food  or  lack 
of  other  essentials,  but  lack  of  capacity  to  buy  food,  etc.,  for  those  who 
are  in  need.  Even  in  India,  the  food  supply  has  increased  and  can 
increase  more  than  proportionately  to  the  population. 

Whenever  India  becomes  free,  and  in  a  position  to  build  her  new 
life  as  she  wants  to,  she  will  necessarily  require  the  best  of  her  sons 
and  daughters  for  this  purpose.  Good  human  material  is  always  rare, 
and  in  India  it  is  rarer  still  because  of  our  lack  of  opportunities  under 
British  rule.  We  shall  want  the  help  of  many  foreign  experts  in  many 
departments  of  public  activity,  particularly  in  those  which  require  spe 
cial  technical  and  scientific  knowledge.  Among  those  who  have  served 
in  the  Indian  Civil  Service  or  other  imperial  services  there  will  be 
many,  Indians  or  foreigners,  who  will  be  necessary  and  welcome  to  the 
new  order.  But  of  one  thing  I  am  quite  sure:  that  no  new  order  can 
be  built  up  in  India  so  long  as  the  spirit  of  the  Indian  Civil  Service 

283 


pervades  our  administration  and  our  public  services.  It  will  either 
succeed  in  crushing  freedom  or  will  be  swept  away  itself.  Only  with 
one  type  of  state  is  it  likely  to  fit  in,  and  that  is  the  fascist  type. 

Even  more  mysterious  and  formidable  are  the  so-called  Defense 
Services.  We  may  not  criticize  them,  we  may  not  say  anything  about 
them,  for  what  do  we  know  about  such  matters?  We  must  only  pay 
and  pay  heavily  without  murmuring.  In  1934  Sir  Philip  Chetwode, 
Commander-in-Chief  in  India,  told  Indian  politicians,  in  pungent 
military  language,  to  mind  their  own  business  and  not  interfere  with 
his.  Referring  to  the  mover  of  an  amendment  to  some  proposition,  he 
said:  "Do  he  and  his  friends  think  that  a  war-worn  and  war-wise  race 
like  the  British,  who  won  their  Empire  at  the  point  of  the  sword  and 
have  kept  it  by  the  sword  ever  since,  are  to  be  talked  out  of  war  wis 
dom  which  that  experience  brings  to  a  nation  by  armchair  critics.  .  .  .?" 
He  made  many  other  interesting  remarks,  and  we  were  informed,  lest 
we  might  think  that  he  had  spoken  in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  that 
he  had  carefully  written  out  his  speech  and  spoke  from  a  manuscript. 

A  politician  and  an  armchair  critic  might  wonder  if  the  claims  of 
eminent  generals  for  freedom  from  interference  are  valid  after  the  ex 
periences  of  the  World  War.  They  had  a  free  field  then  to  a  large 
extent,  and  from  all  accounts  they  made  a  terrible  mess  of  almost  every 
thing  in  every  army — British,  French,  German,  Austrian,  Italian,  Rus 
sian.  Captain  Liddell  Hart,  the  distinguished  British  military  historian 
and  strategist,  writes  in  his  History  of  the  World  War  that  at  one  stage 
in  the  war  while  British  soldiers  fought  the  enemy  British  generals 
fought  one  another. 

Politicians,  like  all  other  people,  err  frequently,  but  democratic  poli 
ticians  have  to  be  sensitive  and  responsive  to  men  and  events,  and  they 
usually  realize  their  mistakes  and  try  to  repair  them.  The  soldier  is 
bred  in  a  different  atmosphere,  where  authority  reigns  and  criticism 
is  not  tolerated.  So  he  resents  the  advice  of  others,  and,  when  he  errs, 
he  errs  thoroughly  and  persists  in  error.  For  him  the  chin  is  more 
important  than  the  mind  or  brain.  In  India  we  have  the  advantage 
of  having  produced  a  mixed  type,  for  the  civil  administration  itself 
has  grown  up  and  lives  in  a  semimilitary  atmosphere  of  authority  and 
self-sufficiency,  and  possesses  therefore  to  a  great  extent  the  soldier's 
chin  and  other  virtues. 

We  are  told  that  the  process  of  "Indianization"  of  the  Army  is  being 
pushed  on,  and  in  another  thirty  years  or  more  an  Indian  general 
might  even  appear  on  the  Indian  stage.  It  is  possible  that  in  not  much 

284 


more  than  a  hundred  years  the  process  of  Indianization  might  be  con 
siderably  advanced.  One  is  apt  to  wonder  how,  in  a  moment  of  crisis, 
England  built  up  a  mighty  army  of  millions  within  a  year  or  two.  If 
it  had  possessed  our  mentors,  perhaps  it  would  have  proceeded  more 
cautiously  and  warily.  It  is  possible,  of  course,  that  the  war  would  have 
been  over  long  before  this  soundly  trained  army  was  ready  for  it. 
One  thinks  also  of  the  Russian  Soviet  armies  growing  out  of  almost 
nothing  and  facing  and  triumphing  over  a  host  of  enemies,  and  today 
constituting  one  of  the  most  efficient  fighting  machines  in  the  world. 
They  did  not  apparently  possess  "war-worn  and  war-wise"  generals 
to  advise  them. 

What  has  been  the  record  of  British  rule  in  India?  Who  are  we  to 
complain  of  its  deficiencies  when  they  were  but  the  consequences  of 
our  own  failings?  If  we  lose  touch  with  the  river  of  change  and  enter  a 
backwater,  become  self-centered  and  self-satisfied,  and,  ostrichlike,  ig 
nore  what  happens  elsewhere,  we  do  so  at  our  peril.  The  British  came 
to  us  on  the  crest  of  a  wave  of  new  impulse  in  the  world,  and  repre 
sented  mighty  historic  forces  which  they  themselves  hardly  realized. 
Are  we  to  complain  of  the  cyclone  that  uproots  us  and  hurls  us  about, 
or  the  cold  wind  that  makes  us  shiver  ?  Let  us  have  done  with  the  past 
and  its  bickering  and  face  the  future.  To  the  British  we  must  be  grate 
ful  for  one  splendid  gift  of  which  they  were  the  bearers,  the  gift  of 
science  and  its  rich  offspring.  It  is  difficult,  however,  to  forget  or  view 
with  equanimity  the  efforts  of  the  British  Government  in  India  to  en 
courage  the  disruptive  obscurantist,  reactionary,  sectarian,  and  oppor 
tunist  elements  in  the  country.  Perhaps  that  too  is  a  needed  test  and 
challenge  for  us,  and,  before  India  is  reborn,  it  will  have  to  go  through 
again  and  again  the  fire  that  cleanses  and  tempers  and  burns  up  the 
weak,  the  impure,  and  the  corrupt. 


XLII 

A  CIVIL  MARRIAGE  AND  A  QUESTION  OF  SCRIPT 

AFTER  SPENDING  ABOUT  a  week  in  Poona  and  Bombay  in  the  middle  of 
September  1933,  I  returned  to  Lucknow.  My  mother  was  still  in  hos 
pital  there  and  improving  very  slowly.  Kamala  was  also  in  Lucknow, 

285 


trying  to  attend  to  her,  although  she  was  not  very  well  herself.  My 
sisters  used  to  come  over  from  Allahabad  for  the  week  ends.  I  remained 
in  Lucknow  for  two  or  three  weeks,  and  I  had  more  leisure  there  than 
I  was  likely  to  have  in  Allahabad,  my  chief  occupation  being  visits  to 
the  hospital  twice  daily.  I  utilized  my  spare  hours  in  writing  some 
articles  for  the  press,  and  these  were  widely  published  all  over  the 
country.  A  series  of  articles  entitled  "Whither  India?"  in  which  I  had 
surveyed  world  affairs  in  relation  to  the  Indian  situation,  attracted 
considerable  attention.  I  learned  later  that  these  articles  were  even 
reproduced  in  Persian  translations  in  Teheran  and  Kabul.  There  was 
nothing  novel  or  original  in  these  articles  for  anyone  in  touch  with 
recent  developments  and  modern  Western  thought.  But  in  India  our 
people  had  been  too  engrossed  in  their  domestic  troubles  to  pay  much 
attention  to  what  was  happening  elsewhere.  The  reception  given  to 
my  articles,  as  well  as  many  other  indications,  showed  that  they  were 
developing  a  wider  outlook. 

My  mother  was  getting  very  tired  of  being  in  hospital,  and  we  de 
cided  to  take  her  back  to  Allahabad.  One  of  the  reasons  for  this  was 
my  sister  Krishna's  engagement,  which  had  just  been  announced.  We 
wanted  to  have  the  marriage  as  soon  as  possible,  before  I  was  suddenly 
removed  to  prison  again.  I  had  no  notion  how  long  I  would  be  allowed 
to  remain  out,  as  civil  disobedience  was  still  the  official  program  of 
the  Congress,  while  the  Congress  itself  and  scores  of  other  organiza 
tions  were  illegal. 

We  fixed  the  marriage  for  the  third  week  of  October  in  Allahabad. 
It  was  to  be  a  civil  ceremony.  I  was  glad  of  this,  though  as  a  matter 
of  fact  we  had  no  choice  in  the  matter.  The  marriage  was  between 
two  different  castes,  Brahman  and  non-Brahman,  and  under  pres 
ent  British  Indian  law  no  religious  ceremony  had  validity  for  such  a 
marriage.  Fortunately  a  recently  passed  Civil  Marriage  Act  came  to  our 
rescue. 

There  was  no  fuss  about  my  sister's  wedding;  it  was  a  very  simple 
affair.  Ordinarily  I  dislike  the  fuss  attendant  on  Indian  marriages.  In 
view  of  my  mother's  illness  and,  even  more,  the  fact  that  civil  disobedi 
ence  was  still  going  on  and  many  of  our  colleagues  were  in  prison, 
anything  in  the  nature  of  show  was  singularly  out  of  place. 

The  little  invitation  we  issued  for  the  wedding  was  written  in  Hin 
dustani  in  the  Latin  script.  Gandhiji  did  not  approve  of  this.  I  did 
not  use  the  Latin  script  because  I  had  become  a  convert  to  it,  although 
it  had  long  attracted  me.  Its  success  in  Turkey  and  Central  Asia  had 

286 


impressed  me,  and  the  obvious  arguments  in  its  favor  were  weighty. 
But  even  so  I  was  not  convinced,  and  even  if  I  had  been  convinced,  I 
knew  well  that  it  did  not  stand  the  faintest  chance  of  being  adopted 
in  present-day  India.  There  would  be  the  most  violent  opposition  to 
it  from  all  groups,  nationalist,  religious,  Hindu,  Moslem,  old  and  new. 
And  I  feel  that  the  opposition  would  not  be  merely  based  on  emotion. 
A  change  of  script  is  a  very  vital  change  for  any  language  with  a  rich 
past,  for  a  script  is  a  most  intimate  part  of  its  literature. 

I  have  no  doubt  whatever  that  Hindustani  is  going  to  be  the  com 
mon  language  of  India.  Indeed  it  is  largely  so  today  for  ordinary  pur 
poses.  Its  progress  has  been  hampered  by  foolish  controversies  about 
the  script.  An  effort  must  be  made  to  discourage  the  extreme  tenden 
cies  and  develop  a  middle  literary  language,  on  the  lines  of  the  spoken 
language  in  common  use.  With  mass  education  this  will  inevitably 
take  place. 

Some  people  imagine  that  English  is  likely  to  become  the  lingua 
jranca  of  India.  That  seems  to  me  a  fantastic  conception,  except  in 
respect  of  a  handful  of  upper-class  intelligentsia.  It  has  no  relation  to 
the  problem  of  mass  education  and  culture.  It  may  be,  as  it  is  partly 
today,  that  English  will  become  increasingly  a  language  used  for 
technical,  scientific,  and  business  communications,  and  especially  for 
international  contacts.  It  is  essential  for  many  of  us  to  know  foreign 
languages  in  order  to  keep  in  touch  with  world  thought  and  activities, 
and  I  should  like  our  universities  to  encourage  the  learning  of  other 
languages  besides  English— French,  German,  Russian,  Spanish,  Italian. 
This  does  not  mean  that  English  should  be  neglected,  but,  if  we  are 
to  have  a  balanced  view  of  the  world,  we  must  not  confine  ourselves 
to  English  spectacles.  We  have  already  become  sufficiendy  lopsided  in 
our  mental  outlook  because  of  this  concentration  on  one  aspect  and 
ideology,  and  even  the  most  rabid  of  our  nationalists  hardly  realize 
how  much  they  are  cribbed  and  confined  by  the  British  outlook  in 
relation  to  India. 


XLIII 

COMMUNALISM  AND  REACTION 

ABOUT  THE  TIME  of  my  sister's  wedding  came  news  of  Vallabhbhai  J. 
PatePs  death  in  Europe.  He  had  long  been  ailing,  and  it  was  because 
of  his  ill-health  that  he  had  been  released  from  prison  in  India.  His 

287 


passing  away  was  a  painful  event,  and  the  thought  of  our  veteran 
leaders'  leaving  us  in  this  way,  one  after  another,  in  the  middle  of  our 
struggle,  was  an  extraordinarily  depressing  one.  Many  tributes  were 
paid  to  Vallabhbhai,  and  most  of  these  laid  stress  on  his  ability  as  a 
parliamentarian  and  his  success  as  president  of  the  Assembly.  This  was 
perfectly  true,  and  yet  this  repetition  irritated  me.  Was  there  any  lack 
of  good  parliamentarians  in  India  or  of  people  who  could  fill  the 
speaker's  chair  with  ability?  That  was  the  one  job  for  which  our 
lawyer's  training  had  fitted  us.  Vallabhbhai  had  been  something  much 
more  than  that — he  had  been  a  great  and  indomitable  fighter  for  India's 
freedom. 

During  my  visit  to  Benares  in  November  I  was  invited  to  address 
the  students  of  the  Hindu  University.  I  gladly  accepted  this  invitation 
and  addressed  a  huge  gathering  presided  over  by  Pandit  Madan  Mo 
han  Malaviya,  the  Vice-Chancellor.  In  the  course  of  my  speech  I  had 
much  to  say  about  communalism,  and  I  denounced  it  in  forcible  lan 
guage,  and  especially  condemned  the  activities  of  the  Hindu  Maha- 
sabha.  This  was  not  exactly  a  premeditated  attack,  but  for  a  long  time 
past  my  mind  had  been  full  of  resentment  at  the  increasingly  reaction 
ary  efforts  of  the  communalists  of  all  groups;  and,  as  I  warmed  up 
to  my  subject,  some  of  this  resentment  came  out.  Deliberately  I  laid 
stress  on  the  reactionary  character  of  the  Hindu  communalists,  for 
there  was  no  point  in  my  criticizing  Moslems  before  a  Hindu  audi 
ence.  At  the  moment,  it  did  not  strike  me  that  it  was  not  in  the  best 
of  taste  to  criticize  the  Hindu  Mahasabha  at  a  meeting  presided  over 
by  Malaviyaji,  who  had  long  been  one  of  its  pillars.  I  did  not  think 
of  this,  as  he  had  not  had  much  to  do  with  it  lately,  and  it  almost 
seemed  that  the  new  aggressive  leaders  of  the  Mahasabha  had  pushed 
him  out. 

My  Benares  speech,  briefly  reported,  created  an  uproar.  Used  as  I 
was  to  such  outcries,  I  was  quite  taken  aback  by  the  vehemence  of 
the  attack  of  the  Hindu  Mahasabha  leaders.  These  attacks  were  largely 
personal  and  seldom  touched  the  point  at  issue.  It  was  a  hornets'  nest, 
and,  though  I  was  used  to  hornets,  it  was  no  pleasure  to  enter  into 
controversies  which  degenerated  into  abuse.  But  now  I  had  no  choice, 
and  I  wrote  what  I  considered  a  reasoned  article  on  Hindu  and  Mos 
lem  communalism,  showing  how  in  neither  case  was  it  even  bona  fide 
communalism,  but  was  political  and  social  reaction  hiding  behind 
the  communal  mask. 

I  was  very  much  heartened,  not  only  by  the  reception  of  all  these 

288 


articles,  but  by  the  visible  effect  they  were  producing  on  people  who 
tried  to  think.  My  object  was  to  point  out  that  the  communal  leaders 
were  allied  to  the  most  reactionary  elements  in  India  and  England 
and  were  in  reality  opposed  to  political,  and  even  more  so  to  social, 
advance.  All  their  demands  had  no  relation  whatever  to  the  masses. 
It  was  my  intention  to  carry  on  with  this  reasoned  attack  when  prison 
claimed  me  again. 

It  is  interesting  to  trace  British  policy  since  the  Rising  o£  1857  in  its 
relation  to  the  communal  question.  Fundamentally  and  inevitably  it 
has  been  one  of  preventing  the  Hindu  and  Moslem  from  acting  to 
gether,  and  of  playing  off  one  community  against  another.  After  1857 
the  heavy  hand  of  the  British  fell  more  on  the  Moslems  than  on  the 
Hindus.  They  considered  the  Moslems  more  aggressive  and  militant, 
possessing  memories  of  recent  rule  in  India,  and  therefore  more  dan 
gerous.  The  Moslems  had  also  kept  away  from  the  new  education 
and  had  few  jobs  under  the  Government. 

The  new  nationalism  then  grew  up  from  above — the  upper-class, 
English-speaking  intelligentsia — and  this  was  naturally  confined  to  the 
Hindus,  for  the  Moslems  were  educationally  very  backward.  The 
Government  encouraged  the  Moslems  more  to  keep  them  away  from 
the  new  nationalist  platform.  In  this  task  they  were  helped  by  an  out 
standing  personality — Sir  Syed  Ahmad  Khan.  Like  many  of  his  con 
temporaries,  he  was  a  great  admirer  of  the  British,  and  a  visit  to 
Europe  seems  to  have  had  a  most  powerful  effect  on  him.  Visiting 
England  in  1869,  he  wrote  letters  home  giving  his  impressions.  In  one 
of  these  he  stated:  "All  good  things,  spiritual  and  worldly,  which 
should  be  found  in  man,  have  been  bestowed  by  the  Almighty  on 
Europe,  and  especially  on  England." * 

Greater  praise  no  man  could  give  to  the  British  and  to  Europe,  and 
it  is  obvious  that  Sir  Syed  was  tremendously  impressed.  Perhaps  also 
he  used  strong  language  and  heightened  the  contrasts  in  order  to  shake 
up  his  own  people  out  of  their  torpor  and  induce  them  to  take  a  step 
forward.  He  was  convinced  that  without  Western  education  his  com 
munity  would  become  more  and  more  backward  and  powerless.  Eng 
lish  education  meant  Government  jobs,  security,  influence,  honor.  So 
to  this  education  he  turned  all  his  energy,  trying  to  win  over  his 
community  to  his  way  of  thinking.  He  wanted  no  diversions  or  dis 
tractions.  The  beginnings  of  a  new  nationalism,  sponsored  by  the  Hindu 
bourgeoisie,  seemed  to  him  to  offer  such  a  distraction,  and  he  opposed 
1  This  quotation  has  been  taken  from  Hans  Kohn's  History  of  Nationalism  in  the  East. 

289 


it.  He  was  not  going  to  risk  the  full  co-operation  of  the  Government 
in  his  educational  plans  by  any  premature  step.  So  he  turned  his  back 
on  the  infant  National  Congress,  and  the  British  Government  were 
only  too  willing  to  encourage  this  attitude. 

Sir  Syed's  decision  to  concentrate  on  Western  education  for  Moslems 
was  undoubtedly  a  right  one.  Without  that  they  could  not  have  played 
any  effective  part  in  the  building  up  of  Indian  nationalism  of  the 
new  type,  and  they  would  have  been  doomed  to  play  second  fiddle 
to  the  Hindus  with  their  better  education  and  far  stronger  economic 
position.  Sir  Syed's  activities,  therefore,  although  seemingly  very  mod 
erate,  were  in  the  right  revolutionary  direction. 

His  dominating  and  forceful  personality  impressed  itself  on  the 
Indian  Moslems,  and  the  Aligarh  College  became  the  visible  emblem 
of  his  hopes  and  desires.  His  message  was  appropriate  and  necessary 
when  it  came,  but  it  could  not  be  the  final  ideal  of  a  progressive  com 
munity.  It  is  possible  that,  had  he  lived  a  generation  later,  he  would 
himself  have  given  another  orientation  to  that  message.  Aligarh  Col 
lege  did  fine  work,  produced  a  large  number  of  competent  men,  and 
changed  the  whole  tone  of  the  Moslem  intelligentsia,  but  still  it  could 
not  wholly  get  out  of  the  framework  in  which  it  was  built — a  feudal 
spirit  reigned  over  it,  and  the  goal  of  the  average  student's  ambition 
was  government  service. 

The  Indian  Moslems  had  not  wholly  recovered  from  the  cramping 
effects  of  Sir  Syed  Ahmad  Khan's  political  message  when  the  events 
of  the  early  years  of  the  twentieth  century  helped  the  British  Govern 
ment  to  widen  the  breach  between  them  and  the  nationalist  move 
ment,  now  clamant  and  aggressive.  Sir  Valentine  Chirol  wrote  in  1910 
in  his  Indian  Unrest:  "It  may  be  confidently  asserted  that  never  before 
have  the  Mohammedans  of  India  as  a  whole  identified  their  interests 
and  their  aspirations  so  closely  as  at  the  present  day  with  the  consolida 
tion  and  permanence  of  British  rule."  Political  prophecies  are  danger 
ous.  Within  five  years  after  Sir  Valentine  wrote,  the  Moslem  intelli 
gentsia  was  trying  hard  to  break  through  from  the  fetters  that  kept  it 
back  and  to  range  itself  beside  the  Congress.  Within  a  decade  the 
Indian  Moslems  seemed  to  have  outstripped  the  Congress  and  were 
actually  giving  the  lead  to  it.  But  these  ten  years  were  momentous 
years,  and  the  Great  War  had  come  and  gone  and  left  a  broken-down 
world  as  a  legacy. 

And  yet  Sir  Valentine  had  superficially  every  reason  to  come  to  the 
conclusion  he  did.  The  Aga  Khan  had  emerged  as  the  leader  of  the 

290 


Moslems,  and  that  fact  alone  showed  that  they  still  clung  to  their 
feudal  traditions,  for  the  Aga  Khan  was  no  bourgeois  leader.  He  was 
an  exceedingly  wealthy  prince  and  the  religious  head  of  a  sect,  and 
from  the  British  point  of  view  he  was  very  much  a  persona  gratd 
because  of  his  close  association  with  the  British  ruling  cksses.  Sir 
Valentine  Chirol  tells  us  that  the  Aga  Khan  impressed  upon  Lord 
Minto,  the  Viceroy,  "the  Mohammedan  view  of  the  political  situation 
created  by  the  partition  of  Bengal,  lest  political  concessions  should  be 
hastily  made  to  the  Hindus  which  would  pave  the  way  for  the  ascend 
ency  of  a  Hindu  majority  equally  dangerous  to  the  stability  of  British 
rule  and  to  the  interests  of  the  Mohammedan  minority  whose  loyalty 
was  beyond  dispute." 

But  behind  this  superficial  lining  up  with  the  British  Government 
other  forces  were  working.  Inevitably  the  new  Moslem  bourgeoisie 
was  feeling  more  and  more  dissatisfied  with  existing  conditions  and 
was  being  drawn  toward  the  nationalist  movement.  The  Aga  Khan 
himself  had  to  take  notice  of  this  and  to  warn  the  British  in  character 
istic  language.  He  wrote  in  the  Edinburgh  Review  of  January  1914 
(that  is,  long  before  the  war)  advising  the  Government  to  abandon 
the  policy  of  separating  Hindus  from  Moslems,  and  to  rally  the  mod 
erate  of  both  creeds  in  a  common  camp  so  as  to  provide  a  counterpoise 
to  the  radical  nationalist  tendencies  of  young  India— both  Hindu  and 
Moslem. 

But  the  Aga  Khan  or  the  British  Government  could  not  stop  the 
inevitable  drift  of  the  Moslem  bourgeoisie  toward  nationalism.  The 
World  War  hastened  the  process,  and,  as  new  leaders  arose,  the  Aga 
Khan  seemed  to  retire  into  the  background.  Gandhiji  swept  most  of 
these  leaders  and  the  Moslems  generally  into  his  nonco-operation 
movement,  and  they  played  a  leading  part  in  the  events  of  1919-23. 

Then  came  the  reaction,  and  communal  and  backward  elements, 
both  among  the  Hindus  and  the  Moslems,  began  to  emerge  from  their 
enforced  retirement.  The  outstanding  fact  seems  to  me  how,  on  both 
sides,  the  communal  leaders  represent  a  small  upper-class  reactionary 
group,  and  how  these  people  exploit  and  take  advantage  of  the  relig 
ious  passions  of  the  masses  for  their  own  ends. 

Latterly  there  has  been  an  interesting  development  in  the  speeches 
and  statements  of  some  of  the  Moslem  communal  leaders.  This  has  no 
real  importance,  but  I  doubt  if  many  people  think  so;  nevertheless  it  is 
significant  of  the  mentality  of  communalism,  and  a  great  deal  of  prom 
inence  has  been  given  to  it.  Stress  has  been  laid  on  the  "Moslem 

291 


nation"  in  India,  on  "Moslem  culture/'  on  the  utter  incompatibility  of 
Hindu  and  Moslem  "cultures."  The  inevitable  deduction  from  this  is 
(although  it  is  not  put  baldly)  that  the  British  must  remain  in  India 
for  ever  and  ever  to  hold  tie  scales  and  mediate  between  the  two 
"cultures." 

A  few  Hindu  communal  leaders  think  exactly  on  the  same  lines, 
with  this  difference,  however,  that  they  hope  that,  being  in  a  majority, 
their  brand  of  "culture"  will  ultimately  prevail. 

Hindu  and  Moslem  "cultures"  and  the  "Moslem  nation"—- how  these 
words  open  out  fascinating  vistas  of  past  history  and  present  and  future 
speculation!  The  Moslem  nation  in  India — a  nation  within  a  nation, 
and  not  even  compact,  but  vague,  spread  out,  indeterminate.  Politically, 
the  idea  is  absurd;  economically  it  is  fantastic;  it  is  hardly  worth  con 
sidering.  To  talk  of  a  "Moslem  nation,"  therefore,  means  that  there  is 
no  nation  at  all  but  a  religious  bond;  it  means  that  no  nation  in  the 
modern  sense  must  be  allowed  to  grow;  it  means  that  modern  civili 
zation  should  be  discarded  and  we  should  go  back  to  the  medieval 
ways;  it  means  either  autocratic  government  or  a  foreign  government; 
it  means,  finally,  just  nothing  at  all  except  an  emotional  state  of  mind 
and  a  conscious  or  unconscious  desire  not  to  face  realities,  especially 
economic  realities.  Emotions  have  a  way  of  upsetting  logic,  and  we 
may  not  ignore  them  simply  because  they  seem  so  unreasonable.  But 
this  idea  of  a  Moslem  nation  is  the  figment  of  a  few  imaginations  only, 
and,  but  for  the  publicity  given  to  it  by  the  press,  few  people  would 
have  heard  of  it.  And,  even  if  many  people  believed  in  it,  it  would 
still  vanish  at  the  touch  of  reality. 

But  what  is  this  "Moslem  culture"?  Is  it  a  kind  of  racial  memory  of 
the  great  deeds  of  the  Arabs,  Persians,  Turks,  etc.?  Or  language?  Or 
art  and  music?  Or  customs?  I  do  not  remember  any  one  referring  to 
present-day  Moslem  art  or  Moslem  music.  The  two  languages  which 
have  influenced  Moslem  thought  in  India  are  Arabic  and  Persian, 
especially  the  latter.  But  the  influence  of  Persian  has  no  element  of 
religion  about  it.  The  Persian  language  and  many  Persian  customs  and 
traditions  came  to  India  in  the  course  of  thousands  of  years  and 
impressed  themselves  powerfully  all  over  north  India.  Persia  was  the 
France  of  the  East,  sending  its  language  and  culture  to  all  its  neigh 
bors.  That  is  a  common  and  precious  heritage  for  all  of  us  in  India. 

I  have  tried  hard  to  understand  what  this  "Moslem  culture"  is,  but  I 
confess  that  I  have  not  succeeded.  I  find  a  tiny  handful  of  middle-class 
Moslems  as  well  as  Hindus  in  north  India  influenced  by  the  Persian 

292 


language  and  traditions.  The  Moslem  peasantry  and  industrial  workers 
are  hardly  distinguishable  from  the  Hindu. 

I  must  say  that  those  Hindus  and  Moslems  who  are  always  looking 
backward,  always  clutching  at  things  which  are  slipping  away  from 
their  grasp,  are  a  singularly  pathetic  sight.  I  do  not  wish  to  damn  the 
past  or  to  reject  it,  for  there  is  so  much  that  is  singularly  beautiful  in 
our  past.  That  will  endure,  I  have  no  doubt.  But  it  is  not  the  beautiful 
that  these  people  clutch  at,  but  something  that  is  seldom  worth  while 
and  is  often  harmful. 

If  progress  consists  in  the  individual's  taking  a  broader  view  of  what 
constitutes  politics,  our  communalists  as  well  as  our  Government  have 
deliberately  and  consistently  aimed  at  the  opposite  of  this — the  narrow 
ing  of  this  view. 


XLIV 

IMPASSE  AND  EARTHQUAKE 

THE  POSSIBILITY  OF  my  rearrest  and  conviction  always  hung  over  me. 
It  was,  indeed,  more  than  a  possibility  when  the  land  was  ruled  by 
ordinances  and  the  like  and  Congress  itself  was  an  illegal  organization. 
Constituted  as  the  British  Government  was,  and  constituted  as  I  was, 
my  suppression  seemed  inevitable.  This  ever-present  prospect  influ 
enced  my  work.  I  could  not  settle  down  to  anything,  and  I  was  in  a 
hurry  to  get  through  as  much  as  possible. 

Yet  I  had  no  desire  to  invite  arrest,  and  to  a  large  extent  I  avoided 
activities  which  might  lead  to  it.  Invitations  came  to  me  from  many 
places  in  the  province  and  outside  to  undertake  a  tour.  I  refused  them, 
for  any  such  speaking  tour  could  only  be  a  raging  campaign  which 
would  be  abruptly  ended.  There  was  no  halfway  house  for  me  then. 
When  I  visited  any  place  for  some  other  object — to  confer  with 
Gandhiji  and  the  Working  Committee  members — I  addressed  public 
meetings  and  spoke  freely.  In  Jubbulpore  we  had  a  great  meeting  and 
a  very  impressive  procession;  in  Delhi  the  gathering  was  one  of  the 
biggest  I  had  seen  there.  Indeed,  the  very  success  of  these  meetings 
made  it  clear  that  the  Government  would  not  tolerate  their  frequent 
repetition.  In  Delhi,  soon  after  the  meeting,  there  was  a  very  strong 
rumor  of  my  impending  arrest,  but  I  survived  and  returned  to  Alla- 

293 


habad,  breaking  journey  at  Aligarh  to  address  the  Moslem  university 
students  there. 

Twice,  during  those  months,  the  members  of  the  Working  Com 
mittee  met  together  to  consider  the  all-India  situation.  The  Committee 
itself  was  not  functioning,  not  so  much  because  it  was  an  illegal  body 
but  because,  at  Gandhiji's  instance  after  Poona,  all  Congress  com 
mittees  and  offices  had  been  suspended.  I  happened  to  occupy  a  pecul 
iar  position  as,  on  coming  out  of  jail,  I  refused  to  join  this  self-denying 
ordinance  and  insisted  on  calling  myself  the  general  secretary  of  the 
Congress.  But  I  functioned  in  the  air.  There  was  no  proper  office,  no 
staff,  no  acting  president;  and  Gandhiji,  though  available  for  consulta 
tion,  was  busy  with  one  of  his  tremendous  all-India  tours,  this  time  for 
Harijan  work.  We  managed  to  catch  him  during  his  tour  at  Jubbul- 
pore  and  Delhi  and  held  our  consultations  with  Working  Committee 
members.  They  served  to  bring  out  clearly  the  differences  between 
various  members.  There  was  an  impasse,  and  no  way  out  of  it  agree 
able  to  everybody.  Gandhiji  was  the  deciding  factor  between  those  who 
wanted  to  withdraw  civil  disobedience  and  those  who  were  against 
this.  As  he  was  then  in  favor  of  the  latter  course,  matters  continued  as 
before. 

Meanwhile  I  continued  sending  articles  and  statements  to  the  press. 
To  some  extent  I  had  to  tone  down  my  writings,  for  they  were  written 
with  a  view  to  publication,  and  there  was  the  censor  and  various  laws 
whose  octopuslike  tentacles  reached  far.  Even  if  I  was  prepared  to  take 
risks,  the  printers,  publishers,  and  editors  were  not.  On  the  whole  the 
newspapers  were  good  to  me  and  stretched  many  a  point  in  my  favor. 
But  not  always.  Sometimes  statements  and  passages  were  suppressed, 
and  once  a  whole  long  article,  over  which  I  had  taken  some  pains, 
never  saw  the  light  of  day.  When  I  was  in  Calcutta  in  January  1934, 
the  editor  of  one  of  the  leading  dailies  came  to  see  me.  He  told  me  that 
he  had  sent  one  of  my  statements  to  the  editor-in-chief  of  all  Calcutta 
newspapers  for  his  opinion,  and,  as  the  editor-in-chief  had  disapproved 
of  it,  it  had  not  been  published.  The  "editor-in-chief"  was  the  Govern 
ment  press  censor  for  Calcutta. 

In  some  of  my  press  interviews  and  statements  I  ventured  to  criticize 
forcibly  some  groups  and  individuals.  This  was  resented,  partly  because 
of  the  idea,  which  Gandhiji  had  helped  to  spread,  that  Congress  could 
be  attacked  without  any  danger  of  its  hitting  back. 

The  effect  of  my  socialist  propaganda  upset  even  some  of  my  col 
leagues  of  the  Working  Committee.  They  would  have  put  up  with  me 

294 


without  complaint,  as  they  had  done  for  several  years  during  which  I 
had  been  carrying  on  this  propaganda,  but  I  was  now  frightening  to 
some  extent  the  vested  interests  in  the  country,  and  my  activities  could 
no  longer  be  called  innocuous.  I  knew  that  some  of  my  colleagues 
were  no  socialists,  but  I  had  always  thought  that,  as  a  member  of  the 
Congress  Executive,  I  had  perfect  freedom  to  carry  on  socialist  propa 
ganda  without  committing  the  Congress  to  it.  The  realization  that 
some  members  of  the  Working  Committee  did  not  think  that  I  had 
that  freedom  came  as  a  surprise.  I  was  putting  them  in  a  false  position, 
and  they  resented  it.  But  what  was  I  to  do  ?  I  was  not  going  to  give  up 
what  I  considered  the  most  important  part  of  my  work.  I  would  much 
rather  resign  from  the  Working  Committee  if  there  was  a  conflict 
between  the  two.  But  how  could  I  resign  when  the  Committee  was 
illegal  and  was  not  even  functioning  properly? 

This  difficulty  faced  me  again  later — I  think  it  was  toward  the  end 
of  December — when  Gandhiji  wrote  to  me  from  Madras.  He  sent  me 
a  cutting  from  the  Madras  Mail  containing  an  interview  he  had  given. 
The  interviewer  had  asked  him  about  me,  and  he  had  replied  almost 
apologizing  for  my  activities  and  expressing  his  faith  in  my  rectitude: 
I  would  not  commit  the  Congress  to  these  novel  ways.  I  did  not  par 
ticularly  fancy  this  reference  to  me,  but  what  upset  me  much  more  was 
Gandhi  ji's  defense,  further  on  in  the  interview,  of  the  big  zamindari 
system.  He  seemed  to  think  that  this  was  a  very  desirable  part  of  rural 
and  national  economy.  This  was  a  great  surprise  to  me,  for  the  big 
zamindaris  and  taluks  have  very  few  defenders  today.  All  over  the 
world  they  have  been  broken  up,  and  even  in  India  most  people  recog 
nize  that  they  cannot  last  long.  Even  talukdars  and  zamindars  would 
welcome  an  end  of  the  system,  provided,  of  course,  they  got  sufficient 
compensation  therefor.  The  system  is  indeed  sinking  of  its  own  weight. 
And  yet  Gandhiji  was  in  favor  of  it  and  talked  of  trusteeship  and  the 
like.  How  very  different  was  his  outlook  from  mine,  I  thought  again, 
and  I  wondered  how  far  I  could  co-operate  with  him  in  future.  Must 
I  continue  to  remain  in  the  Working  Committee?  There  was  no  way 
out  just  then,  and  a  few  weeks  later  the  question  became  irrelevant 
because  of  my  return  to  prison. 

My  domestic  affairs  took  up  a  lot  of  my  time.  My  mother's  health 
continued  to  improve,  but  very  slowly.  She  was  still  bedridden,  but  she 
seemed  to  be  out  of  danger.  I  turned  to  my  financial  affairs,  which  had 
been  long  neglected  and  were  in  a  muddle.  We  had  been  spending 
much  more  than  we  could  afford,  and  there  seemed  to  be  no  obvious 

295 


way  of  reducing  our  expenditure.  I  was  not  particularly  anxious  about 
making  both  ends  meet.  I  almost  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  I 
would  have  no  money  left.  Money  and  possessions  are  useful  enough 
in  the  modern  world,  but  often  they  become  a  burden  for  one  who 
wants  to  go  on  a  long  journey.  It  is  very  difficult  for  moneyed  people 
to  take  part  in  undertakings  which  involve  risk;  they  are  always  afraid 
of  losing  their  goods  and  chattels.  What  is  the  good  of  money  or  prop 
erty  if  the  Government  can  take  possession  of  it  when  it  chooses,  or 
even  confiscate  it?  So  I  almost  wished  to  get  rid  of  what  little  I  had. 
Our  needs  were  few,  and  I  felt  confident  of  my  ability  to  earn  enough. 
My  chief  concern  was  that  my  mother,  in  the  evening  of  her  life, 
should  not  suffer  discomforts  or  any  marked  lowering  of  the  standard 
of  living.  I  was  also  anxious  that  my  daughter's  education  should  not 
be  interfered  with,  and  this,  according  to  my  thinking,  involved  a  stay 
in  Europe.  Apart  from  this,  neither  my  wife  nor  I  had  any  special 
need  for  money.  Or  so  we  thought,  being  unused  to  the  real  lack  of  it. 
I  am  quite  sure  that,  should  the  time  come  when  we  lack  money,  we 
shall  not  be  happy  about  it.  One  extravagance  which  I  have  kept  up 
will  be  hard  to  give  up,  and  this  is  the  buying  of  books. 

To  improve  the  immediate  financial  situation  we  decided  to  sell  off 
my  wife's  jewelry,  the  silver  and  other  similar  articles  that  we  pos 
sessed,  as  well  as  many  cartloads  of  odds  and  ends.  Kamala  did  not  like 
the  idea  of  parting  with  her  jewelry,  although  she  had  not  worn  any 
of  it  for  a  dozen  years  and  it  had  lain  in  the  bank.  She  had  looked 
forward  to  handing  it  on  to  our  daughter. 

It  was  January  1934.  Arrests  of  our  workers  continued  in  the  villages 
of  the  Allahabad  district.  January  26 — Independence  Day — was  coming 
and  it  could  not  be  ignored.  But  who  was  to  give  the  lead?  And  what 
was  the  lead  to  be?  There  was  no  one  besides  me  who  was  function 
ing,  even  in  theory,  as  an  official  of  the  All-India  Congress.  I  consulted 
some  friends,  and  almost  all  agreed  that  something  should  be  done, 
but  there  was  no  agreement  as  to  what  this  something  should  be.  I 
found  a  general  tendency  to  avoid  any  action  which  might  lead  to 
arrests  on  a  large  scale.  Eventually  I  issued  a  brief  appeal  for  the 
appropriate  celebration  of  Independence  Day,  the  manner  of  doing  so 
to  be  decided  by  each  local  area  for  itself.  In  Allahabad  we  planned  a 
fairly  widespread  celebration  all  over  the  district. 

We  felt  that  the  organizers  of  this  Independence  Day  celebration 
would  be  arrested  on  that  day.  Before  I  went  back  to  prison  again  I 
wanted  to  pay  a  visit  to  Bengal.  This  was  partly  to  meet  old  colleagues 

296 


there,  but  really  it  was  to  be  a  gesture  in  the  nature  of  tribute  to  the 
people  of  Bengal  for  their  extraordinary  sufferings  during  the  past 
few  years. 

I  had  to  go  to  Calcutta  with  Kamala  to  consult  our  doctors  there 
about  her  treatment.  She  had  been  far  from  well,  but  we  had  both 
tried  to  overlook  this  to  some  extent  and  postpone  recourse  to  a  treat 
ment  which  might  involve  a  long  stay  in  Calcutta  or  elsewhere.  We 
wanted  to  be  together  as  much  as  possible  during  my  brief  period  out 
side  prison.  After  I  went  back  to  jail,  I  thought,  she  would  have  plenty 
of  time  for  doctors  and  treatment.  Now  that  arrest  seemed  near,  I 
decided  to  have  these  consultations  at  least  in  my  presence  in  Calcutta; 
the  rest  could  be  attended  to  later. 

So  we  decided  to  go  to  Calcutta,  Kamala  and  I,  on  January  15.  We 
wanted  to  return  in  good  time  for  our  Independence  Day  meetings. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  January  15,  1934.  I  was  standing  in  the  ve 
randa  of  our  house  in  Allahabad  addressing  a  group  of  peasants.  The 
annual  Magh  Mela  had  begun,  and  we  had  crowds  of  visitors  all  day. 
Suddenly  I  became  unsteady  on  my  feet  and  could  hardly  keep  my 
balance.  I  clung  on  to  a  column  near  by.  Doors  started  banging,  and  a 
rumbling  noise  came  from  the  adjoining  Swaraj  Bhawan,  where  many 
of  the  tiles  were  sliding  down  the  roof.  Being  unaccustomed  to  earth 
quakes,  I  did  not  know  at  first  what  was  happening,  but  I  soon  real 
ized  it.  I  was  rather  amused  and  interested  at  this  novel  experience, 
and  I  continued  my  talk  to  the  peasants  and  began  telling  them  about 
the  earthquake.  My  old  aunt  shouted  to  me  from  some  distance  to  run 
out  of  the  building.  The  idea  struck  me  as  absurd.  I  did  not  take  the 
earthquake  seriously,  and  in  any  event  I  was  not  going  to  leave  my 
bedridden  mother  upstairs,  and  my  wife,  who  was  probably  packing, 
also  upstairs  and  seek  safety  for  myself.  For  what  seemed  quite  an 
appreciable  time  the  shocks  continued  and  then  passed  off.  They  pro 
vided  a  few  minutes'  conversation  and  soon  were  almost  forgotten. 
We  did  not  know  then,  nor  could  we  guess,  what  those  two  or  three 
minutes  had  meant  to  millions  in  Behar  and  elsewhere. 

That  evening  Kamala  and  I  left  for  Calcutta,  and,  all  unknowing, 
we  were  carried  by  our  train  that  night  through  the  southern  earth 
quake  area.  The  next  day  there  was  litde  news  in  Calcutta  about  the 
disaster.  The  day  after  bits  of  news  began  to  come  in.  On  the  third  day 
we  began  to  have  a  faint  notion  of  the  calamity. 

We  spent  three  and  a  half  days  in  Calcutta,  and  during  this  period  I 

297 


addressed  three  public  meetings.  As  I  had  done  before  in  Calcutta,  I 
condemned  and  argued  against  terroristic  acts,  and  then  I  passed  on  to 
the  methods  that  the  Government  had  adopted  in  Bengal.  I  spoke  from 
a  full  heart,  for  I  had  been  greatly  moved  by  accounts  of  occurrences 
in  the  province.  What  pained  me  most  was  the  manner  in  which 
human  dignity  had  been  outraged  by  indiscriminate  suppression  of 
whole  populations.  The  political  problem,  urgent  as  it  was,  took  second 
place  before  this  human  problem.  These  three  speeches  of  mine  formed 
the  three  counts  in  the  charge  against  me  in  my  subsequent  trial  in 
Calcutta.  I  was  later  sentenced  on  that  charge. 

From  Calcutta  we  went  to  Santiniketan  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  poet, 
Rabindranath  Tagore.  It  was  always  a  joy  to  meet  him  and,  having 
come  so  near,  we  did  not  wish  to  miss  him.  I  had  been  to  Santiniketan 
twice  before.  It  was  Kamala's  first  visit,  and  she  had  come  especially 
to  see  the  place,  as  we  were  thinking  of  sending  our  daughter  there. 
Indira  was  going  to  appear  for  her  matriculation  soon  afterward,  and 
the  problem  of  her  future  education  was  troubling  us.  I  was  wholly 
against  her  joining  the  regular  official  or  semiofficial  universities,  for  I 
disliked  them.  The  whole  atmosphere  that  envelops  them  is  official, 
oppressive,  and  authoritarian.  They  have  no  doubt  produced  fine  men 
and  women  in  the  past,  and  they  will  continue  to  do  so.  But  these  few 
exceptions  cannot  save  the  universities  from  the  charge  of  suppressing 
and  deadening  the  fine  instincts  of  youth.  Santiniketan  offered  an 
escape  from  this  dead  hand,  and  so  we  fixed  upon  it,  although  in  some 
ways  it  was  not  so  up  to  date  and  well-equipped  as  the  other  uni 
versities. 

On  our  way  back  we  stopped  at  Patna  to  discuss  with  Rajendra 
Babu  the  problem  of  earthquake  relief.  He  had  just  been  discharged 
from  prison,  and,  inevitably,  he  had  taken  the  lead  in  unofficial  relief 
work.  Our  arrival  was  unexpected,  for  none  of  our  telegrams  had  been 
delivered.  The  house  where  we  intended  staying  with  Kamala's 
brother  was  in  ruins;  it  was  a  big  double-storied  brick  structure.  So, 
like  many  others,  we  lived  in  the  open. 

The  next  day  I  paid  a  visit  to  Muzaffarpur.  It  was  exactly  seven  days 
after  the  earthquake,  and  little  had  so  far  been  done  to  remove  the 
debris,  except  from  some  of  the  main  streets.  As  these  streets  were 
cleaned,  corpses  were  being  discovered,  some  in  curiously  expressive 
attitudes,  as  if  trying  to  ward  off  a  falling  wall  or  roof.  The  ruins  were 
an  impressive  and  terrifying  sight.  The  survivors  were  thoroughly 
shaken  up  and  cowed  by  their  nerve-racking  experiences. 

298 


We  returned  to  Allahabad,  and  collections  of  funds  and  materials 
were  immediately  organized,  and  all  of  us,  of  the  Congress  or  out  of  it, 
took  this  up  in  earnest.  Some  of  rny  colleagues  were  of  opinion  that 
because  of  the  earthquake  the  Independence  Day  celebrations  should  be 
called  off.  But  other  colleagues  and  I  saw  no  reason  why  even  an  earth 
quake  should  interfere  with  our  program.  So  on  January  26  we  had  a 
large  number  of  meetings  in  the  villages  of  Allahabad  district  and  a 
meeting  in  the  city,  and  we  met  with  greater  success  than  we  had 
anticipated. 

Soon  after  returning  from  Behar  I  issued  a  statement  about  the 
earthquake,  ending  up  with  an  appeal  for  funds.  In  this  statement  I 
criticized  the  inactivity  of  the  Behar  Government  during  the  first  few 
days  after  the  earthquake.  Thousands  of  people  were  killed  in  Mong- 
hyr  city  alone,  and  three  weeks  later  I  saw  a  vast  quantity  of  debris 
still  lying  untouched,  although  a  few  miles  away  at  Jamalpur  there 
was  a  large  colony  of  many  thousands  of  railway  workers,  who  could 
have  been  utilized  for  this  purpose  within  a  few  hours  of  the  catas 
trophe.  Living  people  were  unearthed  even  twelve  days  after  the  earth 
quake.  The  Government  had  taken  immediate  steps  to  protect  prop 
erty,  but  they  had  not  been  so  expeditious  in  trying  to  rescue  people 
who  lay  buried. 

My  criticism  was  resented,  and  soon  afterward  a  few  people  in 
Behar  came  out  with  a  general  testimonial  in  favor  of  the  Government 
as  a  kind  of  counterblast.  The  earthquake  and  its  demands  became 
almost  a  secondary  matter.  More  important  was  the  fact  that  the  Gov 
ernment  had  been  criticized,  and  it  had  to  be  defended  by  its  loyal 
subjects.  This  was  an  interesting  instance  of  a  widespread  phenomenon 
in  India — the  dislike  of  criticism  of  the  Government,  which  is  a  com 
monplace  in  Western  countries.  It  is  the  military  mentality  which 
cannot  tolerate  criticism.  Like  the  King,  the  British  Government  in 
India  and  all  of  its  superior  officials  can  do  no  wrong.  To  hint  at  any 
such  thing  is  Use  majeste. 

The  curious  part  of  it  is  that  a  charge  of  inefficiency  and  incompe 
tence  is  resented  far  more  than  an  accusation  of  harsh  government  or 
tyranny.  The  latter  might  indeed  land  the  person  making  it  in  prison, 
but  the  Government  is  used  to  it  and  does  not  really  mind  it.  After  all, 
in  a  way,  it  might  almost  be  considered  a  compliment  to  an  imperial 
race.  But  to  be  called  inefficient  and  wanting  in  nerve  hurts,  for  this 
strikes  at  the  root  of  their  self-esteem;  it  disturbs  the  messianic  delu 
sions  of  the  English  officials  in  India. 

299 


There  is  a  general  belief  among  Englishmen,  frequently  asserted  as 
if  it  was  an  incontrovertible  maxim,  that  a  change  of  government  in 
India,  involving  a  reduction  or  elimination  of  British  influence,  would 
result  in  a  much  worse  and  more  inefficient  government.  I  believe  that 
self-government  is  good  for  any  country.  But  I  am  not  prepared  to 
accept  even  self-government  at  the  cost  of  really  good  government. 
Self-government,  if  it  is  to  justify  itself,  must  stand  ultimately  for 
better  government  for  the  masses.  It  is  because  I  believe  that  the  British 
Government  in  India,  whatever  its  claims  in  the  past  may  have  been, 
is  incapable  of  providing  good  government  and  rising  standards  for  the 
masses  today,  that  I  feel  that  it  has  outlived  its  utility,  such  as  it  was, 
in  India.  The  only  real  justification  for  Indian  freedom  is  the  promise 
of  better  government,  of  a  higher  standard  for  the  masses,  of  industrial 
and  cultural  growth,  and  of  the  removal  of  the  atmosphere  of  fear  and 
suppression  that  foreign  imperialist  rule  invariably  brings  in  its  train. 

The  Allahabad  Earthquake  Relief  Committee  deputed  me  to  visit 
the  areas  affected  by  the  earthquake  and  to  report  on  the  methods  of 
relief  work  adopted  there.  I  went  immediately,  alone,  and  for  ten  days 
I  wandered  about  those  torn  and  ruined  territories.  It  was  a  very  stren 
uous  tour,  and  I  had  little  sleep  during  those  days.  From  five  in  the 
morning  till  almost  midnight  we  were  up  and  about,  motoring  over 
the  cracked  and  crumpled-up  roads,  or  going  by  little  boats  where  the 
bridges  had  collapsed  and  the  roads  were  under  water  owing  to  a 
change  in  level.  The  towns  were  impressive  enough  with  their  exten 
sive  ruins,  and  their  roads  torn  up  and  twisted  sometimes  as  by  a  giant 
hand,  or  raised  high  above  the  plinth  of  the  houses  on  either  side.  Out 
of  huge  cracks  in  these  roads  water  and  sand  had  gushed  out  and 
swept  away  men  and  cattle.  More  even  than  these  towns,  the  plains  of 
north  Behar — the  garden  of  Behar,  they  used  to  be  called — had  desola 
tion  and  destruction  stamped  upon  them.  Mile  upon  mile  of  sand,  and 
large  sheets  of  water,  and  huge  cracks  and  vast  numbers  of  little  craters 
out  of  which  this  sand  and  water  had  come.  Some  British  officers  who 
flew  over  this  area  said  that  it  bore  some  resemblance  to  the  battlefields 
of  northern  France  in  wartime  and  soon  after. 

The  city  of  Monghyr  was  the  last  place  in  our  tour.  We  had  wan 
dered  a  good  deal  and  gone  almost  up  to  the  frontier  of  Nepal,  and 
we  had  seen  many  harrowing  sights.  We  had  become  used  to  ruins 
and  destruction  on  a  vast  scale.  And  yet  when  we  saw  Monghyr  and 
the  absolute  destruction  of  this  rich  city,  we  gasped  and  shivered  at 
the  horror  of  it.  I  can  never  forget  that  terrible  sight. 

300 


In  Monghyr  I  indulged  in  a  theatrical  gesture  to  give  a  push  to  the 
self-help  movement  for  digging  and  removing  the  debris.  I  did  so  with 
some  hesitation,  but  it  turned  out  to  be  a  success.  All  the  leaders  o£  the 
relief  organizations  went  out  with  spades  and  baskets  and  did  a  good 
day's  digging,  and  we  brought  out  the  corpse  of  a  little  girl.  I  left 
Monghyr  that  day,  but  the  digging  went  on  and  many  local  people 
took  it  up  with  very  good  results. 

During  my  tour  in  the  earthquake  areas,  or  just  before  going  there, 
I  read  with  a  great  shock  Gandhiji's  statement  to  the  effect  that  the 
earthquake  had  been  a  punishment  for  the  sin  of  untouchability.  This 
was  a  staggering  remark,  and  I  welcomed  and  wholly  agreed  with 
Rabindranath  Tagore's  answer  to  it.  Anything  more  opposed  to  the 
scientific  outlook  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine. 

And,  if  the  earthquake  was  a  divine  punishment  for  sin,  how  are 
we  to  discover  for  which  sin  we  are  being  punished? — for,  alas!  we 
have  many  sins  to  atone  for.  Each  person  can  have  his  pet  explanation; 
we  may  have  been  punished  for  submitting  to  alien  domination,  or 
for  putting  up  with  an  unjust  social  system.  The  Maharaja  of  Durb- 
hanga,  the  owner  of  enormous  estates,  was,  financially,  one  of  the 
major  sufferers  from  the  earthquake.  We  might  as  well  say  that  this 
was  a  judgment  on  the  zamindari  system.  That  would  be  nearer  the 
mark  than  to  suggest  that  the  more  or  less  innocent  people  of  Behar 
were  being  made  to  suffer  vicariously  for  the  sins  of  untouchability 
of  the  people  of  south  India.  Why  did  not  the  earthquake  visit  the 
land  of  untouchability  itself?  Or  the  British  Government  might  call 
the  calamity  a  divine  punishment  for  civil  disobedience,  for,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  north  Behar,  which  suffered  most  from  the  earthquake, 
took  a  leading  part  in  the  freedom  movement. 

I  got  back  home  in  Allahabad  on  February  n,  dead  tired  after  my 
tour.  Ten  strenuous  days  had  made  me  look  ghastly,  and  my  people 
were  surprised  at  my  appearance.  I  tried  to  begin  writing  my  report 
of  the  tour  for  the  Allahabad  Relief  Committee,  but  sleep  overcame 
me.  I  spent  at  least  twelve  hours  out  of  the  next  twenty-four  in  sleep. 

Next  day,  in  the  late  afternoon,  Kamala  and  I  had  finished  tea,  and 
Purushottam  Das  Tandon  had  just  then  joined  us.  We  were  standing 
in  the  veranda  when  a  car  drove  up  and  a  police  officer  alighted.  I 
knew  immediately  that  my  time  had  come.  I  went  up  to  him  and  said: 
"Bahut  dinon  se  dp\a  intazar  thd" — "I  have  been  waiting  for  you  for 
a  long  time."  He  was  a  little  apologetic  and  said  that  he  was  not  to 
blame.  The  warrant  was  from  Calcutta. 

301 


Five  months  and  thirteen  days  I  had  been  out,  and  now  I  went  back 
again  to  seclusion  and  loneliness.  But  the  real  burden  was  not  mine; 
it  had  to  be  shouldered,  as  always,  by  the  womenfolk — by  my  ailing 
mother,  my  wife,  my  sister. 


XLV 

ALIPORE  JAIL 

THAT  VERY  NIGHT  I  was  taken  to  Calcutta.  From  Howrah  station  a 
huge  Black  Maria  carried  me  to  Lai  Bazaar  Police  Station.  I  had 
read  much  of  this  famous  headquarters  of  the  Calcutta  police,  and  I 
looked  round  with  interest.  There  were  large  numbers  of  European 
sergeants  and  inspectors  to  be  seen,  far  more  than  would  have  been 
in  evidence  in  any  police  headquarters  in  northern  India.  The  con 
stables  seemed  to  be  almost  all  from  Behar  or  the  eastern  districts  of 
the  United  Provinces.  During  the  many  journeys  I  made  in  the  big 
prison  lorry,  to  court  and  back  or  from  one  prison  to  another,  a  num 
ber  of  these  constables  used  to  accompany  me  inside.  They  looked 
thoroughly  unhappy,  disliking  their  job,  and  obviously  full  of  sym 
pathy  for  me.  Sometimes  their  eyes  glistened  with  tears. 

I  was  kept  in  the  Presidency  Jail  to  begin  with,  and  from  there  I 
was  taken  for  my  trial  to  the  Chief  Presidency  Magistrate's  court. 
This  was  a  novel  experience.  The  courtroom  and  building  had  more 
the  appearance  of  a  besieged  fortress  than  of  an  open  court.  Except 
for  a  few  newspapermen  and  the  usual  lawyers,  no  outsiders  were 
allowed  anywhere  in  the  neighborhood.  The  police  were  present  in 
some  force.  These  arrangements  apparently  had  not  been  made  espe 
cially  for  me;  that  was  the  daily  routine.  When  I  was  taken  to  the 
courtroom  I  had  to  march  through  a  long  passage  (inside  the  room) 
which  was  closely  wired  on  top  and  at  the  side.  It  was  like  going 
through  a  cage.  The  dock  was  far  from  the  magistrate's  seat.  The 
courtroom  was  crowded  with  policemen  and  black-coated  and  -gowned 
lawyers. 

I  was  used  enough  to  court  trials.  Many  of  my  previous  trials  had 
taken  place  in  jail  precincts.  But  there  had  always  been  some  friends, 
relatives,  familiar  faces  about,  and  the  whole  atmosphere  had  been  a 
little  easier.  The  police  had  usually  kept  in  the  background,  and  there 
had  never  been  any  cagelike  structures  about.  Here  it  was  very  diflfer- 

302 


ent,  and  I  gazed  at  strange,  unfamiliar  faces  between  whom  and  me 
there  was  nothing  in  common.  It  was  not  an  attractive  crowd.  I  am 
afraid  gowned  lawyers  en  masse  are  not  beautiful  to  look  at,  and 
police-court  lawyers  seem  to  develop  a  peculiarly  unlovely  look.  At 
last  I  managed  to  spot  one  familiar  lawyer's  face  in  that  black  array, 
but  he  was  lost  in  the  crowd. 

I  felt  very  lonely  and  isolated  even  when  I  sat  on  the  balcony  outside 
before  the  trial  began.  My  pulse  must  have  quickened  a  little,  and 
inwardly  I  was  not  quite  so  composed  as  I  usually  had  been  during 
my  previous  trials.  It  struck  me  then  that  if  even  I,  with  so  much 
experience  of  trials  and  convictions,  could  react  abnormally  to  that 
situation,  how  much  more  must  young  and  inexperienced  people  feel 
the  tension? 

I  felt  much  better  in  the  dock  itself.  There  was,  as  usual,  no  defense 
offered,  and  I  read  out  a  brief  statement.  The  next  day,  February  16, 
I  was  sentenced  to  two  years.  My  seventh  term  of  imprisonment  had 
begun. 

I  looked  back  with  some  satisfaction  to  my  five  and  a  half  months' 
stay  outside.  That  time  had  been  fairly  well  occupied,  and  I  had  man 
aged  to  get  through  some  useful  jobs.  My  mother  had  turned  the 
corner  and  was  out  of  immediate  danger.  My  younger  sister,  Krishna, 
had  married.  My  daughter's  future  education  had  been  fixed  up.  I 
had  straightened  out  some  of  my  domestic  and  financial  tangles.  Many 
personal  matters  that  I  had  been  long  neglecting  had  been  attended 
to.  In  the  field  of  public  affairs  I  knew  that  no  one  could  do  much 
then.  I  had  at  least  helped  a  little  in  stiffening  up  the  Congress  attitude 
and  in  directing  it  to  some  extent  toward  social  and  economic  ways 
of  thinking.  My  Poona  correspondence  with  Gandhi ji,  and  later  my 
articles  in  the  press,  had  made  a  difference.  My  articles  on  the  com 
munal  question  had  also  done  some  good.  And  then  I  had  met 
Gandhiji  again  after  more  than  two  years,  and  many  other  friends 
and  comrades,  and  had  charged  myself  with  nervous  and  emotional 
energy  for  another  period. 

One  shadow  remained  to  darken  my  mind — Kamala's  ill-health.  I 
had  no  notion  then  how  very  ill  she  was,  for  she  has  a  habit  of  carrying 
on  till  she  collapses.  But  I  was  worried.  And  yet  I  hoped  that  now 
I  was  in  prison  she  would  be  free  to  devote  herself  to  her  treatment. 
It  was  more  difficult  to  do  so  while  I  was  out,  and  she  was  not  willing 
to  leave  me  for  long. 

I  had  one  other  regret.  I  was  sorry  that  I  had  not  visited  even  once 

303 


the  rural  areas  of  Allahabad  district.  Many  of  my  young  colleagues 
had  recently  been  arrested  there  for  carrying  out  our  instructions,  and 
it  seemed  almost  like  disloyalty  to  them  not  to  follow  them  in  the 
district. 

Again  the  Black  Maria  carried  me  back  to  prison.  On  our  way  we 
passed  plenty  of  troops  on  the  march  with  machine  guns,  armored 
cars,  etc.  I  peeped  at  them  through  the  tiny  openings  of  our  prison 
van.  How  ugly  an  armored  car  is,  I  thought,  and  a  tank.  They  re 
minded  me  of  prehistoric  monsters — dinosaurs  and  the  like. 

I  was  transferred  from  the  Presidency  Jail  to  the  Alipore  Central 
Jail,  and  there  I  was  given  a  little  cell,  about  ten  feet  by  nine.  In  front 
of  it  were  a  veranda  and  a  small  open  yard.  The  wall  enclosing  the  yard 
was  a  low  one,  about  seven  feet,  and  looking  over  it  I  was  confronted 
by  a  strange  sight.  All  manner  of  odd  buildings — single-story,  double- 
story,  round,  rectangular,  curious  roofings — rose  all  round,  some  over 
topping  the  others.  It  seemed  that  the  structures  had  grown  one  by  one, 
being  fitted  in  anyhow  to  take  advantage  of  all  the  available  space. 
Almost  it  looked  like  a  jigsaw  puzzle  or  a  futurist  attempt  at  the  fan 
tastic.  And  yet  I  was  told  that  all  the  buildings  had  been  arranged  very 
methodically  with  a  tower  in  the  center  (which  was  a  church  for  the 
Christian  prisoners)  and  radiating  lines.  Being  a  city  jail,  the  area  was 
limited,  and  every  little  bit  of  it  had  to  be  utilized. 

I  had  hardly  recovered  from  my  first  view  of  the  seemingly  fantastic 
structures  around  me  when  a  terrifying  sight  greeted  me.  Two  chim 
neys,  right  in  front  of  my  cell  and  yard,  were  belching  forth  dense 
volumes  of  black  smoke,  and  sometimes  the  wind  blew  this  smoke  in 
my  direction,  almost  suffocating  me.  They  were  the  chimneys  of  the 
jail  kitchens.  I  suggested  to  the  superintendent  later  that  gas  masks 
might  be  provided  to  meet  this  offensive. 

It  was  not  an  agreeable  start,  and  the  future  was  not  inviting — to 
enjoy  the  unchanging  prospect  of  the  red-brick  structures  of  Alipore 
Jail  and  to  swallow  and  inhale  the  smoke  of  its  kitchen  chimneys. 
There  were  no  trees  or  greenery  in  my  yard.  It  was  all  paved  and 
pucca  and  clean,  except  for  the  daily  deposit  of  smoke,  but  it  was  also 
bare  and  cheerless.  I  could  just  see  the  tops  of  one  or  two  trees  in 
adjoining  yards.  They  were  barren  of  leaf  or  flower  when  I  arrived. 
But  gradually  a  mysterious  change  came  over  them,  and  little  bits  of 
green  were  peeping  out  all  over  their  branches.  The  leaves  were  com 
ing  out  of  the  buds;  they  grew  rapidly  and  covered  the  nakedness  of 

3°4 


the  branches  with  their  pleasant  green.  It  was  a  delightful  change 
which  made  even  Alipore  Jail  look  gay  and  cheerful 

In  one  of  these  trees  was  a  kite's  nest  which  interested  me,  and  I 
watched  it  often.  The  little  ones  were  growing  and  learning  the  tricks 
of  the  trade,  and  sometimes  they  would  swoop  down  with  rapidity 
and  amazing  accuracy  and  snatch  the  bread  out  of  a  prisoner's  hand, 
almost  out  of  his  mouth. 

From  sunset  to  sunrise  (more  or  less)  we  were  locked  up  in  our 
cells,  and  the  long  winter  evenings  were  not  very  easy  to  pass.  I  grew 
tired  of  reading  or  writing  hour  after  hour,  and  would  start  walking 
up  and  down  that  little  cell— four  or  five  short  steps  forward  and  then 
back  again.  I  remembered  the  bears  at  the  zoo  tramping  up  and  down 
their  cages.  Sometimes  when  I  felt  particularly  bored  I  took  to  my 
favorite  remedy,  the  shirshdsana — standing  on  the  head! 

The  early  part  of  the  night  was  fairly  quiet,  and  city  sounds  used  to 
float  in — the  noise  of  the  trams,  a  gramaphone,  or  someone  singing  in 
the  distance.  It  was  pleasant  to  hear  this  faint  and  distant  music.  But 
there  was  not  much  peace  at  night,  for  the  guards  on  duty  tramped  up 
and  down,  and  every  hour  there  was  some  kind  of  an  inspection.  Some 
officer  came  round  with  a  lantern  to  make  sure  that  none  of  us  had 
escaped.  At  3  A.M.  every  day,  or  rather  night,  there  was  a  tremendous 
din,  and  a  mighty  sound  of  scraping  and  scrubbing.  The  kitchens  had 
begun  functioning. 

There  were  vast  numbers  of  warders  and  guards  and  officers  and 
clerks  in  the  Alipore  Jail,  as  also  in  the  Presidency.  Both  these  prisons 
housed  a  population  about  equal  to  that  of  Naini  Prison — 2200  to 
2300 — but  the  staff  in  each  must  have  been  more  than  double  that  of 
Naini.  There  were  many  European  warders  and  retired  Indian  army 
officers.  It  was  evident  that  the  British  Empire  functioned  more  inten 
sively  and  more  expensively  in  Calcutta  than  in  the  United  Provinces. 
A  sign  and  a  perpetual  reminder  of  the  might  of  the  Empire  was  the 
cry  that  prisoners  had  to  shout  out  when  high  officials  approached 
them.  "Sarftar  salaam"  was  the  cry,  lengthened  out,  and  it  was  accom 
panied  by  certain  physical  movements  of  the  body.  The  voices  of  the 
prisoners  shouting  out  this  cry  came  to  me  many  times  a  day  over  my 
yard  wall,  and  especially  when  the  superintendent  passed  by  daily.  I 
could  just  see  over  my  seven-foot  wall  the  top  of  the  huge  State 
umbrella  under  which  the  superintendent  marched. 

Was  this  extraordinary  cry—sar{ar  salaam— and  the  movements  that 
went  with  it  relics  of  old  times,  I  wondered;  or  were  they  the  invention 

305 


of  some  inspired  English  official?  I  do  not  know,  but  I  imagine  that  it 
was  an  English  invention.  It  has  a  typical  Anglo-Indian  sound  about 
it.  Fortunately  this  cry  does  not  prevail  in  the  United  Provinces  jails 
or  probably  in  any  other  province  besides  Bengal  and  Assam.  The  way 
this  enforced  salutation  to  the  might  of  the  sar\ar  is  shouted  out 
seemed  to  me  very  degrading. 

The  brief  winter  was  soon  over,  and  spring  raced  by,  and  summer 
began.  It  grew  hotter  day  by  day.  I  had  never  been  fond  of  the  Cal 
cutta  climate,  and  even  a  few  days  of  it  had  made  me  stale  and  flat.  In 
prison  conditions  were  naturally  far  worse,  and  I  did  not  prosper  as 
the  days  went  by.  Lack  of  space  for  exercise  and  long  lock-up  hours 
in  that  climate  probably  affected  my  health  a  little,  and  I  lost  weight 
rapidly.  How  I  began  to  hate  all  locks  and  bolts  and  bars  and  walls! 

After  a  month  in  Alipore  I  was  allowed  to  take  some  exercise  out 
side  my  yard.  This  was  an  agreeable  change,  and  I  could  walk  up  and 
down  under  the  main  wall,  morning  and  evening.  Gradually  I  got 
accustomed  to  Alipore  Jail  and  the  Calcutta  climate;  and  even  the 
kitchen,  with  its  smoke  and  mighty  din,  became  a  tolerable  nuisance. 
Other  matters  occupied  my  mind,  other  worries  filled  me.  News  from 
outside  was  not  good. 

I  was  surprised  to  find  in  Alipore  that  no  daily  paper  would  be 
allowed  to  me  after  my  conviction.  As  an  under-trial  prisoner  I  re 
ceived  the  daily  Statesman,  of  Calcutta,  but  this  was  stopped  the  day 
after  my  trial  was  over.  In  the  United  Provinces,  ever  since  1932,  a 
daily  (chosen  by  the  Government)  was  permitted  to  A-Class  or  first 
division  prisoners.  So  also  in  most  other  provinces,  and  I  was  fully 
under  the  impression  that  the  same  rule  was  applicable  in  Bengal. 
Instead  of  the  daily,  however,  I  was  supplied  with  the  weekly  States 
man.  This  was  evidently  meant  for  retired  English  officials  or  business 
men  who  had  gone  back  to  England,  and  it  contained  a  summary  of 
Indian  news  likely  to  interest  them.  No  foreign  news  at  all  was  given, 
and  I  missed  it  very  much,  as  I  used  to  follow  it  closely.  Fortunately  I 
was  allowed  to  have  the  Manchester  Guardian  Weekly,  and  this  kept 
me  in  touch  with  Europe  and  international  affairs. 

My  arrest  and  trial  in  February  coincided  with  upheavals  and  bitter 
conflicts  in  Europe.  There  was  the  ferment  in  France  resulting  in 
fascist  riots  and  the  formation  of  a  "National"  Government.  And,  far 
worse,  in  Austria,  Chancellor  Dollfuss  was  shooting  down  workers 
and  putting  an  end  to  the  great  edifice  of  social  democracy  there.  The 
news  of  the  Austrian  bloodshed  depressed  me  greatly.  What  an  awful 

306 


and  bloody  place  this  world  was,  and  how  barbarous  was  man  when 
he  wanted  to  protect  his  vested  interests!  All  over  Europe  and  America 
fascism  seemed  to  be  advancing.  When  Hitler  came  into  power  in 
Germany,  I  had  imagined  that  his  regime  could  not  possibly  last  long, 
as  he  was  offering  no  solution  of  Germany's  economic  troubles.  So 
also,  as  fascism  spread  elsewhere,  I  consoled  myself  that  it  represented 
the  last  ditch  of  reaction.  After  it  must  come  the  breaking  of  the 
shackles.  But  I  began  to  wonder  if  my  wish  was  not  father  to  my 
thought.  Was  it  so  obvious  that  this  fascist  wave  would  retire  so  easily 
or  so  quickly?  And,  even  if  conditions  became  intolerable  for  the 
fascist  dictatorships,  would  they  not  rather  hurl  their  countries  into 
devastating  war  rather  than  give  in  ?  What  would  be  the  result  of  such 
a  conflict? 

Meanwhile,  fascism  of  various  kinds  and  shapes  spread.  Spain,  that 
new  "Republic  of  Honest  Men" — los  hombres  honrados — the  very 
Manchester  Guardian  of  governments,  as  someone  called  it,  had  gone 
far  back  and  deep  into  reaction.  All  the  fine  phrases  of  its  honest 
Liberal  leaders  had  not  kept  it  from  sliding  down.  Everywhere  Liber 
alism  showed  its  utter  ineffectiveness  to  face  modern  conditions.  It 
clung  to  words  and  phrases,  and  thought  that  they  could  take  the 
place  of  action.  When  a  crisis  came,  it  simply  faded  off  like  the  end  of 
a  film  that  is  over. 

I  read  the  leading  articles  of  the  Manchester  Guardian  on  the  Aus 
trian  tragedy  with  deep  interest  and  appreciation. 

"Austrian  democracy  has  been  destroyed,  although  to  its  everlasting 
glory  it  went  down  fighting  and  so  created  a  legend  that  may  rekindle 
the  spirit  of  European  freedom  some  day  in  years  to  come." 

"The  Europe  that  is  unfree  has  ceased  to  breathe;  there  is  no  flow 
or  counterflow  of  healthy  spirits;  a  gradual  suffocation  has  set  in,  and 
only  some  violent  convulsion  or  inner  paroxysm  and  a  striking  out  to 
the  right  and  left  can  avert  the  mental  coma  that  is  approaching.  .  .  . 
Europe  from  the  Rhine  to  the  Urals  is  one  great  prison." 

Moving  passages  which  found  an  echo  in  my  heart.  But  I  wondered: 
what  of  India?  How  can  it  be  that  the  Manchester  Guardian  or  the 
many  lovers  of  freedom  who  undoubtedly  exist  in  England  should  be 
so  oblivious  to  our  fate?  How  can  they  miss  seeing  here  what  they 
condemn  with  such  fervor  elsewhere?  It  was  a  great  English  Liberal 
leader,  trained  in  the  nineteenth-century  tradition,  cautious  by  tem 
perament,  restrained  in  his  language,  who  said  twenty  years  ago,  on 
the  eve  of  the  Great  War:  "Sooner  than  be  a  silent  witness  of  the 

307 


tragic  triumph  of  force  over  law,  I  would  see  this  country  of  ours 
blotted  out  of  the  page  of  history/'  A  brave  thought,  eloquently  put, 
and  the  gallant  youth  of  England  went  in  their  millions  to  vindicate 
it.  But  if  an  Indian  ventures  to  make  a  statement  similar  to  Mr. 
Asquith's,  what  fate  is  his? 

The  British  are  an  insular  race,  and  long  success  and  prosperity 
have  made  them  look  down  on  almost  all  others.  For  them,  as  some 
one  has  said,  "les  negres  commencent  a  Calais''  But  that  is  too  general 
a  statement.  Perhaps  the  British  upper-class  division  of  the  world  would 
be  somewhat  as  follows:  (i)  Britain — a  long  gap,  and  then  (2)  the 
British  Dominions  (white  populations  only)  and  America  (Anglo- 
Saxons  only,  and  not  dagoes,  wops,  etc.),  (3)  Western  Europe,  (4) 
Rest  of  Europe,  (5)  South  America  (Latin  races),  a  long  gap,  and  then 
(6)  the  brown,  yellow,  and  black  races  of  Asia  and  Africa. 

How  far  we  of  the  last  of  these  classes  are  from  the  heights  where 
our  rulers  live!  Is  it  any  wonder  that  their  vision  grows  dim  when 
they  look  toward  us,  and  that  we  should  irritate  them  when  we  talk 
of  democracy  and  liberty?  These  words  were  not  coined  for  our  use. 
Was  it  not  a  great  Liberal  statesman,  John  Morley,  who  declared 
that  he  could  not  conceive  of  democratic  institutions  in  India  even  in 
the  far,  dim  future  ?  Democracy  for  India  was,  like  Canada's  fur  coat, 
unsuited  to  her  climate.  And,  later  on,  Britain's  Labour  party,  the 
standard-bearers  of  socialism,  the  champions  of  the  underdog,  pre 
sented  us,  in  the  flush  of  their  triumph,  with  a  revival  of  the  Bengal 
Ordinance  in  1924,  and  during  their  second  government  our  fate  was 
even  worse.  I  am  quite  sure  that  none  of  them  mean  us  ill,  and,  when 
they  address  us  in  their  best  pulpit  manner — "Dearly  beloved  breth 
ren" — they  feel  a  glow  of  conscious  virtue.  But,  to  them,  we  are  not  as 
they  are  and  must  be  judged  by  other  standards.  It  is  difficult  enough 
for  an  Englishman  and  a  Frenchman  to  think  alike  because  of  lingu 
istic  and  cultural  differences;  how  much  vaster  must  be  the  difference 
between  an  Englishman  and  an  Asiatic? 

Lord  Lytton,  a  former  governor  of  an  Indian  province,  who  acted 
as  Viceroy  for  a  while,  often  referred  to  as  a  liberal  and  sympa 
thetic  governor,  is  reported  to  have  said1  that  "the  Government  of 
India  was  far  more  representative  of  India  as  a  whole  than  the  Con 
gress  politicians.  The  Government  of  India  was  able  to  speak  in  the 
name  of  officials,  the  Army,  the  Police,  the  Princes,  the  fighting  regi 
ments  and  both  Moslems  and  Hindus,  whereas  the  Congress  politicians 

1  House  of  Lords,  December  17,  1934. 

308 


could  not  even  speak  on  behalf  o£  one  of  the  great  Indian  communi 
ties."  He  went  on  to  make  his  meaning  quite  clear:  "When  I  speak 
of  Indian  opinion.,  I  am  thinking  of  those  on  whose  co-operation  I  had 
to  rely  and  on  whose  co-operation  the  future  Governors  and  Viceroys 
will  have  to  rely." 

Two  interesting  points  emerge  from  his  speech:  the  India  that  counts 
means  those  who  help  the  British;  and  the  British  Government  of 
India  is  the  most  representative  and,  therefore,  democratic  body  in  the 
country.  That  this  argument  should  be  advanced  seriously  shows  that 
English  words  seem  to  change  their  meanings  when  they  cross  the 
Suez  Canal.  The  next  and  obvious  step  in  reasoning  would  be,  that 
autocratic  government  is  the  most  representative  and  democratic  form 
because  the  King  represents  everybody.  We  get  back  to  the  divine  right 
of  kings  and  "I'Stat,  cest  moi!" 

In  India  we  are  told  that  our  communal  divisions  come  in  the  way 
of  our  democratic  progress,  and,  therefore,  with  incontrovertible  logic, 
those  divisions  are  perpetuated.  We  are  further  told  that  we  are  not 
united  enough.  In  Egypt  there  are  no  communal  divisions,  and  it 
appears  that  the  most  perfect  political  unity  prevails.  And  yet,  this 
very  unity  becomes  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  democracy  and  freedom! 
Truly  the  path  of  democracy  is  straight  and  narrow.  Democracy  for 
an  Eastern  country  seems  to  mean  only  one  thing:  to  carry  out  the 
behests  of  the  imperialist  ruling  power  and  not  to  touch  any  of  its 
interests.  Subject  to  that  proviso,  democratic  freedom  can  flourish 
unchecked. 


XLVI 

DESOLATION 

APRIL  CAME.  Rumors  reached  me  in  my  cell  in  Alipore  of  happenings 
outside,  rumors  that  were  unpleasant  and  disturbing.  The  superin 
tendent  of  the  jail  informed  me  casually  one  day  that  Mr.  Gandhi  had 
withdrawn  civil  disobedience.  I  knew  no  more.  The  news  was  not 
welcome,  and  I  felt  sad  at  this  winding  up  of  something  that  had 
meant  so  much  to  me  for  many  years.  And  yet  I  reasoned  with  myself 
that  the  end  was  bound  to  come.  I  knew  in  my  heart  that  sometime 
or  other  civil  disobedience  would  have  to  be  wound  up,  for  the  time 
being  at  least.  Individuals  may  hold  out  almost  indefinitely,  regardless 

309 


of  the  consequences,  but  national  organizations  do  not  behave  in  this 
manner.  I  had  no  doubt  that  Gandhiji  had  interpreted  correctly  the 
mind  of  the  country  and  of  the  great  majority  of  Congressmen,  and 
I  tried  to  reconcile  myself  to  the  new  development,  unpleasant  as  it 
was. 

Some  days  later  the  weekly  Statesman  came  to  me,  and  I  read  in  it 
the  statement  which  Gandhiji  had  issued  when  withdrawing  civil  dis 
obedience.  I  read  it  with  amazement  and  sinking  of  heart.  Again  and 
again  I  read  it;  civil  disobedience  and  much  else  vanished  from  my 
mind,  and  other  doubts  and  conflicts  filled  it.  "This  statement,"  wrote 
Gandhiji,  "owes  its  inspiration  to  a  personal  chat  with  the  inmates 
and  associates  of  the  Satyagraha  Ashrama. .  .  .  More  especially  is  it  due 
to  revealing  information  I  got  in  the  course  of  a  conversation  about 
a  valued  companion  of  long  standing  who  was  found  reluctant  to  per 
form  the  full  prison  task,  preferring  his  private  studies  to  the  allotted 
task.  This  was  undoubtedly  contrary  to  the  rules  of  Satyagraha.  More 
than  the  imperfection  of  the  friend  whom  I  love,  more  than  ever  it 
brought  home  to  me  my  own  imperfections.  The  friend  said  he  had 
thought  that  I  was  aware  of  his  weakness.  I  was  blind.  Blindness  in  a 
leader  is  unpardonable.  I  saw  at  once  that  I  must  for  the  time  being 
remain  the  sole  representative  of  civil  resistance  in  action." 

The  imperfection  or  fault,  if  such  it  was,  of  the  "friend"  was  a  very 
trivial  affair.  I  confess  that  I  have  often  been  guilty  of  it,  and  I  am 
wholly  unrepentant.  But,  even  if  it  was  a  serious  matter,  was  a  vast 
national  movement  involving  scores  of  thousands  directly  and  millions 
indirectly  to  be  thrown  out  of  gear  because  an  individual  had  erred? 
This  seemed  to  me  a  monstrous  proposition  and  an  immoral  one.  I 
cannot  presume  to  speak  of  what  is  and  what  is  not  Satyagraha,  but  in 
my  own  little  way  I  have  endeavored  to  follow  certain  standards  of 
conduct,  and  all  those  standards  were  shocked  and  upset  by  this  state 
ment  of  Gandhij i's.  I  knew  that  Gandhiji  usually  acts  on  instinct  (I 
prefer  to  call  it  that  than  the  "inner  voice"  or  an  answer  to  prayer), 
and  very  often  that  instinct  is  right.  He  has  repeatedly  shown  what  a 
wonderful  knack  he  has  of  sensing  the  mass  mind  and  of  acting  at  the 
psychological  moment.  The  reasons  which  he  afterward  adduces  to 
justify  his  action  are  usually  afterthoughts  and  seldom  carry  one  very 
far.  A  leader  or  a  man  of  action  in  a  crisis  almost  always  acts  subcon 
sciously  and  then  thinks  of  the  reasons  for  his  action.  I  felt  also  that 
Gandhiji  had  acted  righdy  in  suspending  civil  resistance.  But  the 
reason  he  had  given  seemed  to  me  an  insult  to  intelligence  and  an 

310 


amazing  performance  for  a  leader  of  a  national  movement.  He  was 
perfectly  entitled  to  treat  his  ashrama  inmates  in  any  manner  he  liked; 
they  had  taken  all  kinds  o£  pledges  and  accepted  a  certain  regime.  But 
the  Congress  had  not  done  so;  I  had  not  done  so.  Why  should  we  be 
tossed  hither  and  thither  for,  what  seemed  to  me,  metaphysical  and 
mystical  reasons  in  which  I  was  not  interested?  Was  it  conceivable  to 
have  any  political  movement  on  this  basis?  I  had  willingly  accepted 
the  moral  aspect  of  Satyagraha  as  I  understood  it  (within  certain  limits, 
I  admit).  That  basic  aspect  appealed  to  me,  and  it  seemed  to  raise 
politics  to  a  higher  and  nobler  level.  I  was  prepared  to  agree  that  the 
end  does  not  justify  all  kinds  of  means.  But  this  new  development  or 
interpretation  was  something  much  more  far-reaching,  and  it  held 
forth  some  possibilities  which  frightened  me. 

The  whole  statement  frightened  and  oppressed  me  tremendously. 
And  then  finally  the  advice  he  gave  to  Congressmen  was  that  "they 
must  learn  the  art  and  beauty  of  self-denial  and  voluntary  poverty. 
They  must  engage  themselves  in  nation-building  activities,  the  spread 
of  \hadi  through  personal  hand-spinning  and  hand-weaving,  the 
spread  of  communal  unity  of  hearts  by  irreproachable  personal  conduct 
toward  one  another  in  every  walk  of  life,  the  banishing  of  untoucha- 
bility  in  every  shape  or  form  in  one's  own  person,  the  spread  of  total 
abstinence  from  intoxicating  drinks  and  drugs  by  personal  contact 
with  individual  addicts  and  generally  by  cultivating  personal  purity. 
These  are  services  which  provide  maintenance  on  the  poor  man's  scale. 
Those  for  whom  the  poor  man's  scale  is  not  feasible  should  find  a  place 
in  small  unorganized  industries  of  national  importance  which  give  a 
better  wage." 

This  was  the  political  program  that  we  were  to  follow.  A  vast  dis 
tance  seemed  to  separate  him  from  me.  With  a  stab  of  pain  I  felt  that 
the  cords  of  allegiance  that  had  bound  me  to  him  for  many  years  had 
snapped.  For  long  a  mental  tussle  had  been  going  on  within  me.  I  had 
not  understood  or  appreciated  much  that  Gandhiji  had  done.  His  fasts 
and  his  concentration  on  other  issues  during  the  continuance  of  civil 
disobedience,  when  his  comrades  were  in  the  grip  of  the  struggle,  his 
personal  and  self -created  entanglements,  which  led  him  to  the  extraor 
dinary  position  that,  while  out  of  prison,  he  was  yet  pledged  to  himself 
not  to  take  part  in  the  political  movement,  his  new  loyalties  and 
pledges  which  put  in  the  shade  the  old  loyalty  and  pledge  and  job, 
undertaken  together  with  many  colleagues,  while  yet  that  job  was 
unfinished,  had  all  oppressed  me.  During  my  short  period  out  of 

311 


prison  I  had  felt  these  and  other  differences  more  than  ever.  Gandhiji 
had  stated  that  there  were  temperamental  differences  between  us.  They 
were  perhaps  more  than  temperamental,  and  I  realized  that  I  held 
clear  and  definite  views  about  many  matters  which  were  opposed  to 
his.  And  yet  in  the  past  I  had  tried  to  subordinate  them,  as  far  as  I 
could,  to  what  I  conceived  to  be  the  larger  loyalty — the  cause  of  na 
tional  freedom  for  which  the  Congress  seemed  to  be  working.  I  tried 
to  be  loyal  and  faithful  to  my  leader  and  my  colleagues,  for  in  my 
spiritual  make-up  loyalty  to  a  cause  and  to  one's  colleagues  holds  a 
high  place.  I  fought  many  a  battle  within  myself  when  I  felt  that  I  was 
being  dragged  away  from  the  anchor  of  my  spiritual  faith.  Somehow 
I  managed  to  compromise.  Perhaps  I  did  wrong,  for  it  can  never  be 
right  for  anyone  to  let  go  of  that  anchor.  But  in  the  conflict  of  ideals  I 
clung  to  my  loyalty  to  my  colleagues,  and  hoped  that  the  rush  of  events 
and  the  development  of  our  struggle  might  dissolve  the  difficulties  that 
troubled  me  and  bring  my  colleagues  nearer  to  my  viewpoint. 

And  now?  Suddenly  I  felt  very  lonely  in  that  cell  of  Alipore  Jail. 
Life  seemed  to  be  a  dreary  affair,  a  very  wilderness  of  desolation.  Of 
the  many  hard  lessons  that  I  had  learned,  the  hardest  and  the  most 
painful  now  faced  me:  that  it  is  not  possible  in  any  vital  matter  to  rely 
on  anyone.  One  must  journey  through  life  alone;  to  rely  on  others  is 
to  invite  heartbreak. 

Some  of  my  accumulated  irritation  directed  itself  against  religion 
and  the  religious  outlook.  What  an  enemy  this  was  to  clearness  of 
thought  and  fixity  of  purpose,  I  thought;  for  was  it  not  based  on 
emotion  and  passion?  Presuming  to  be  spiritual,  how  far  removed  it 
was  from  real  spirituality  and  things  of  the  spirit.  Thinking  in  terms 
of  some  other  world,  it  had  little  conception  of  human  values  and 
social  values  and  social  justice.  With  its  preconceived  notions  it  de 
liberately  shut  its  eyes  to  reality  for  fear  that  this  might  not  fit  in  with 
them.  It  based  itself  on  truth,  and  yet  so  sure  was  it  of  having  discov 
ered  it,  and  the  whole  of  it,  that  it  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  search 
for  it;  all  that  concerned  it  was  to  tell  others  of  it.  The  will  to  truth 
was  not  the  same  thing  as  the  will  to  believe.  It  talked  of  peace  and  yet 
supported  systems  and  organizations  that  could  not  exist  but  for  vio 
lence.  It  condemned  the  violence  of  the  sword,  but  what  of  the  violence 
that  comes  quietly  and  often  in  peaceful  garb  and  starves  and  kills;  or, 
worse  still,  without  doing  any  outward  physical  injury,  outrages  the 
mind  and  crushes  the  spirit  and  breaks  the  heart? 

And  then  I  thought  of  him  again  who  was  the  cause  of  this  commo- 

312 


tion  within  me.  What  a  wonderful  man  was  Gandhiji  after  all,  with 
his  amazing  and  almost  irresistible  charm  and  subtle  power  over 
people.  His  writings  and  his  sayings  conveyed  little  enough  impression 
of  the  man  behind;  his  personality  was  far  bigger  than  they  would 
lead  one  to  think.  And  his  services  to  India,  how  vast  they  had  been! 
He  had  instilled  courage  and  manhood  in  her  people,  and  discipline 
and  endurance,  and  the  power  of  joyful  sacrifice  for  a  cause,  and,  with 
all  his  humility,  pride.  Courage  is  the  one  sure  foundation  of  character, 
he  had  said;  without  courage  there  is  no  morality,  no  religion,  no  love. 
"One  cannot  follow  truth  or  love  so  long  as  one  is  subject  to  fear."  With 
all  his  horror  of  violence,  he  had  told  us  that  "cowardice  is  a  thing  even 
more  hateful  than  violence."  And  "discipline  is  the  pledge  and  guaran 
tee  that  a  man  means  business.  There  is  no  deliverance  and  no  hope 
without  sacrifice,  discipline,  and  self-control.  Mere  sacrifice  without  dis 
cipline  will  be  unavailing."  Words  only  and  pious  phrases  perhaps, 
rather  platitudinous,  but  there  was  power  behind  the  words,  and  India 
knew  that  this  little  man  meant  business. 

He  came  to  represent  India  to  an  amazing  degree  and  to  express 
the  very  spirit  of  that  ancient  and  tortured  land.  Almost  he  was  India, 
and  his  very  failings  were  Indian  failings.  A  slight  to  him  was  hardly 
a  personal  matter,  it  was  an  insult  to  the  nation;  and  Viceroys  and 
others  who  indulged  in  these  disdainful  gestures  little  realized  what  a 
dangerous  crop  they  were  sowing.  I  remember  how  hurt  I  was  when 
I  first  learned  that  the  Pope  had  refused  an  interview  to  Gandhiji 
when  he  was  returning  from  the  Round  Table  Conference  in  Decem 
ber  1931.  That  refusal  seemed  to  me  an  affront  to  India,  and  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  the  refusal  was  intentional,  though  the  affront  was 
probably  not  thought  of.  The  Catholic  Church  does  not  approve  of 
saints  or  mahatmas  outside  its  fold,  and  because  some  Protestant 
churchmen  had  called  Gandhiji  a  great  man  of  religion  and  a  real 
Christian,  it  became  all  the  more  necessary  for  Rome  to  dissociate  itself 
from  this  heresy. 

But  Gandhiji's  greatness  or  his  services  to  India  or  the  tremendous 
debt  I  personally  owed  to  him  were  not  in  question.  In  spite  of  all  that, 
he  might  be  hopelessly  in  the  wrong  in  many  matters.  What,  after  all, 
was  he  aiming  at  ?  In  spite  of  the  closest  association  with  him  for  many 
years,  I  am  not  clear  in  my  own  mind  about  his  objective.  I  doubt  if  he 
is  clear  himself.  One  step  is  enough  for  me,  he  says;  and  he  does  not 
try  to  peep  into  the  future  or  to  have  a  clearly  conceived  end  before 
him.  Look  after  the  means,  and  the  end  will  take  care  of  itself,  he  is 

313 


never  tired  of  repeating.  Be  good  in  your  personal  individual  lives,  and 
all  else  will  follow.  That  is  not  a  political  or  scientific  attitude,  nor  is  it 
perhaps  even  an  ethical  attitude.  It  is  narrowly  moralist,  and  it  begs 
the  question:  What  is  goodness?  Is  it  merely  an  individual  affair  or  a 
social  affair?  Gandhiji  lays  all  stress  on  character  and  attaches  little 
importance  to  intellectual  training  and  development.  Intellect  without 
character  is  likely  to  be  dangerous,  but  what  is  character  without  intel 
lect?  How,  indeed,  does  character  develop?  Gandhiji  has  been  com 
pared  to  the  medieval  Christian  saints,  and  much  that  he  says  seems  to 
fit  in  with  this.  It  does  not  fit  in  at  all  with  modern  psychological  ex 
perience  and  method. 

But,  however  this  may  be,  vagueness  in  an  objective  seems  to  me  de 
plorable.  Action  to  be  effective  must  be  directed  to  clearly  conceived 
ends.  Life  is  not  all  logic,  and  those  ends  will  have  to  be  varied  from 
time  to  time  to  fit  in  with  it,  but  some  end  must  always  be  clearly 
envisaged. 

I  imagine  that  Gandhiji  is  not  so  vague  about  the  objective  as  he 
sometimes  appears  to  be.  He  is  passionately  desirous  of  going  in  a  cer 
tain  direction,  but  this  is  wholly  at  variance  with  modern  ideas  and 
conditions,  and  he  has  so  far  been  unable  to  fit  the  two,  or  to  chalk  out 
all  the  intermediate  steps  leading  to  his  goal.  Hence  the  appearance  of 
vagueness  and  avoidance  of  clarity.  But  his  general  inclination  has 
been  clear  enough  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  ever  since  he  started  for 
mulating  his  philosophy  in  South  Africa.  I  do  not  know  if  those  early 
writings  still  represent  his  views.  I  doubt  if  they  do  so  in  their  entirety, 
but  they  do  help  us  to  understand  the  background  of  his  thought. 

"India's  salvation  consists,"  he  wrote  in  1909,  "in  unlearning  what 
she  has  learned  during  the  last  fifty  years.  The  railways,  telegraphs, 
hospitals,  lawyers,  doctors,  and  suchlike  have  all  to  go;  and  the 
so-called  upper  classes  have  to  learn  consciously,  religiously,  and  delib 
erately  the  simple  peasant  life,  knowing  it  to  be  a  life  giving  true  hap 
piness."  And  again:  "Every  time  I  get  into  a  railway  car  or  use  a 
motor  bus  I  know  that  I  am  doing  violence  to  my  sense  of  what  is 
right";  "to  attempt  to  reform  the  world  by  means  of  highly  artificial 
and  speedy  locomotion  is  to  attempt  the  impossible." 

All  this  seems  to  me  utterly  wrong  and  harmful  doctrine,  and  im 
possible  of  achievement.  Behind  it  lies  Gandhiji's  love  and  praise  of 
poverty  and  suffering  and  the  ascetic  life.  For  him  progress  and  civili 
zation  consist  not  in  the  multiplication  of  wants,  of  higher  standards  of 
living,  "but  in  the  deliberate  and  voluntary  restriction  of  wants,  which 


promotes  real  happiness  and  contentment,  and  increases  the  capacity 
for  service."  If  these  premises  are  once  accepted,  it  becomes  easy  to  fol 
low  the  rest  of  Gandhi ji's  thought  and  to  have  a  better  understanding 
of  his  activities.  But  most  of  us  do  not  accept  those  premises,  and  yet 
we  complain  later  on  when  we  find  that  his  activities  are  not  to  our 
liking. 

Personally  I  dislike  the  praise  of  poverty  and  suffering.  I  do  not 
think  they  are  at  all  desirable,  and  they  ought  to  be  abolished.  Nor  do 
I  appreciate  the  ascetic  life  as  a  social  ideal,  though  it  may  suit  individ 
uals.  I  understand  and  appreciate  simplicity,  equality,  self-control;  but 
not  the  mortification  of  the  flesh.  Just  as  an  athlete  requires  to  train  his 
body,  I  believe  that  the  mind  and  habits  have  also  to  be  trained  and 
brought  under  control.  It  would  be  absurd  to  expect  that  a  person  who 
is  given  to  too  much  self-indulgence  can  endure  much  suffering  or 
show  unusual  self-control  or  behave  like  a  hero  when  the  crisis  comes. 
To  be  in  good  moral  condition  requires  at  least  as  much  training  as  to 
be  in  good  physical  condition.  But  that  certainly  does  not  mean  asceti 
cism  or  self-mortification. 

Nor  do  I  appreciate  in  the  least  the  idealization  of  the  "simple  peas 
ant  life."  I  have  almost  a  horror  of  it,  and  instead  of  submitting  to  it 
myself  I  want  to  drag  out  even  the  peasantry  from  it,  not  to  urbaniza 
tion,  but  to  the  spread  of  urban  cultural  facilities  to  rural  areas.  Far 
from  this  life's  giving  me  true  happiness,  it  would  be  almost  as  bad  as 
imprisonment  for  me.  What  is  there  in  "The  Man  with  the  Hoe"  to 
idealize  over?  Crushed  and  exploited  for  innumerable  generations,  he 
is  only  little  removed  from  the  animals  who  keep  him  company. 

Who  made  him  dead  to  rapture  and  despair, 
A  thing  that  grieves  not  and  that  never  hopes, 
Stolid  and  stunned,  a  brother  to  the  ox? 

This  desire  to  get  away  from  the  mind  of  man  to  primitive  condi 
tions  where  mind  does  not  count,  seems  to  me  quite  incomprehensible. 
The  very  thing  that  is  the  glory  and  triumph  of  man  is  decried  and 
discouraged,  and  a  physical  environment  which  will  oppress  the  mind 
and  prevent  its  growth  is  considered  desirable.  Present-day  civilization 
is  full  of  evils,  but  it  is  also  full  of  good;  and  it  has  the  capacity  in  it 
to  rid  itself  of  those  evils.  To  destroy  it  root  and  branch  is  to  remove 
that  capacity  from  it  and  revert  to  a  dull,  sunless,  and  miserable  exist 
ence.  But  even  if  that  were  desirable  it  is  an  impossible  undertaking. 
We  cannot  stop  the  river  of  change  or  cut  ourselves  adrift  from  it,  and 

3*5 


psychologically  we  who  have  eaten  of  the  apple  o£  Eden  cannot  forget 
that  taste  and  go  back  to  primitiveness. 

It  is  difficult  to  argue  this,  for  the  two  standpoints  are  utterly  differ 
ent.  Gandhiji  is  always  thinking  in  terms  of  personal  salvation  and  of 
sin,  while  most  of  us  have  society's  welfare  uppermost  in  our  minds. 
I  find  it  difficult  to  grasp  the  idea  of  sin,  and  perhaps  it  is  because  of 
this  that  I  cannot  appreciate  Gandhiji's  general  outlook.  He  is  not  out 
to  change  society  or  the  social  structure;  he  devotes  himself  to  the 
eradication  of  sin  from  individuals.  "The  follower  of  Swadeshi,"  he 
has  written,  "never  takes  upon  himself  the  vain  task  of  trying  to  re 
form  the  world,  for  he  believes  that  the  world  is  moved  and  always 
will  be  moved  according  to  the  rules  set  by  God."  And  yet  he  is  aggres 
sive  enough  in  his  attempts  to  reform  the  world;  but  the  reform  he 
aims  at  is  individual  reform,  the  conquest  over  the  senses  and  the 
desire  to  indulge  them,  which  is  sin.  Probably  he  will  agree  with  the 
definition  of  liberty  which  an  able  Roman  Catholic  writer  on  fascism 
has  given:  "Liberty  is  no  more  than  freedom  from  the  bondage  of  sin." 
How  almost  identical  this  is  with  the  words  of  the  Bishop  of  London 
written  two  hundred  years  ago:  "The  Freedom  which  Christianity 
gives  is  Freedom  from  the  Bondage  of  sin  and  Satan  and  from  the 
Dominion  of  Men's  Lusts  and  Passions  and  inordinate  Desires." 

If  this  standpoint  is  once  appreciated,  then  one  begins  to  understand 
a  little  Gandhiji's  attitude  to  sex,  extraordinary  as  that  seems  to  the 
average  person  today.  For  him  "any  union  is  a  crime  when  the  desire 
for  progeny  is  absent,"  and  "the  adoption  of  artificial  methods  must 
result  in  imbecility  and  nervous  prostration."  "It  is  wrong  and  im 
moral  to  seek  to  escape  the  consequences  of  one's  act.  ...  It  is  bad  for 
him  to  indulge  his  appetite  and  then  escape  the  consequences  by  taking 
tonics  or  other  medicines.  It  is  still  worse  for  a  person  to  indulge  his 
animal  passions  and  escape  the  consequences  of  his  acts." 

Personally  I  find  this  attitude  unnatural  and  shocking,  and  if  he  is 
right,  then  I  am  a  criminal  on  the  verge  of  imbecility  and  nervous 
prostration.  The  Roman  Catholics  have  also  vigorously  opposed  birth 
control,  but  they  have  not  carried  their  argument  to  the  logical  limit, 
as  Gandhiji  has  done.  They  have  temporized  and  compromised  with 
what  they  consider  to  be  human  nature.  But  Gandhiji  has  gone  to 
the  extreme  limit  of  his  argument  and  does  not  recognize  the  validity 
or  necessity  of  the  sexual  act  at  any  time  except  for  the  sake  of  chil 
dren;  he  refuses  to  recognize  any  natural  sex  attraction  between  man 
and  woman.  "But  I  am  told,"  he  says,  "that  this  is  an  impossible  ideal, 

316 


that  I  do  not  take  account  of  the  natural  attraction  between  man  and 
woman.  I  refuse  to  believe  that  the  sensual  affinity,  referred  to  here, 
can  be  at  all  regarded  as  natural;  in  that  case  the  deluge  would  soon  be 
over  us.  The  natural  affinity  between  man  and  woman  is  the  attraction 
between  brother  and  sister,  mother  and  son,  or  father  and  daughter, 
It  is  this  natural  attraction  that  sustains  the  world."  And  more  em 
phatically  still:  "No,  I  must  declare  with  all  the  power  I  can  command 
that  sensual  attraction,  even  between  husband  and  wife,  is  unnatural." 
One  can  accept  it  as  an  act  of  faith  or  reject  it.  There  is  no  halfway 
house,  for  it  is  a  question  of  faith,  not  of  reason.  For  my  part  I  think 
Gandhiji  is  absolutely  wrong  in  this  matter.  His  advice  may  fit  in  with 
some  cases,  but  as  a  general  policy  it  can  only  lead  to  frustration,  in 
hibition,  neurosis,  and  all  manner  of  physical  and  nervous  ills.  Sexual 
restraint  is  certainly  desirable,  but  I  doubt  if  Gandhiji's  doctrine  is 
likely  to  result  in  this  to  any  widespread  extent.  It  is  too  extreme,  and 
most  people  decide  that  it  is  beyond  their  capacity  and  go  their  usual 
ways,  or  there  is  friction  between  husband  and  wife.  Evidently  Gan 
dhiji  thinks  that  birth-control  methods  necessarily  mean  inordinate 
indulgence  in  the  sex  act,  and  that  if  the  sexual  affinity  between  man 
and  woman  is  admitted  every  man  will  run  after  every  woman,  and 
vice  versa.  Neither  inference  is  justified,  and  I  do  not  know  why  he  is 
so  obsessed  by  this  problem  of  sex,  important  as  it  is.  For  him  it  is  a 
"soot  or  whitewash"  question;  there  are  no  intermediate  shades.  At 
either  end  he  takes  up  an  extreme  position  which  seems  to  me  most 
abnormal  and  unnatural.  Perhaps  this  is  a  reaction  from  the  deluge  of 
literature  on  sexology  that  is  descending  on  us  in  these  days.  I  presume 
I  am  a  normal  individual  and  sex  has  played  its  part  in  my  life,  but 
it  has  not  obsessed  me  or  diverted  me  from  my  other  activities.  It  has 
been  a  subordinate  part, 

I  have  drifted  to  other  topics,  but  in  those  distressful  days  in  Alipore 
Jail  all  these  ideas  crowded  in  my  mind,  not  in  logical  order  or  se 
quence,  but  in  a  wild  jumble  which  confused  me  and  oppressed  me. 
Above  all,  there  was  the  feeling  of  loneliness  and  desolation,  heightened 
by  the  stifling  atmosphere  of  the  jail  and  my  lonely  little  cell.  If  I  had 
been  outside,  the  shock  would  have  been  more  momentary,  and  I 
would  have  adjusted  myself  sooner  to  new  conditions  and  found  relief 
in  expression  and  action.  Inside  the  prison  there  was  no  such  relief, 
and  I  spent  some  miserable  days.  Fortunately  for  myself,  I  am  resilient 
and  recover  soon  from  attacks  of  pessimism.  I  began  to  grow  out  of 

317 


my  depression,  and  then  I  had  an  interview  in  jail  with  Kamala.  That 
cheered  me  up  tremendously,  and  my  feeling  of  isolation  left  me. 
Whatever  happened,  I  felt,  we  had  one  another. 


XLVII 

PARADOXES 

PEOPLE  WHO  DO  not  know  Gandhiji  personally  and  have  only  read  his 
writings  are  apt  to  think  that  he  is  a  priestly  type,  extremely  puritani 
cal,  long-faced,  Calvinistic,  and  a  kill-joy,  something  like  the  "priests 
in  black  gowns  walking  their  rounds."  But  his  writings  do  him  an 
injustice;  he  is  far  greater  than  what  he  writes,  and  it  is  not  quite  fair 
to  quote  what  he  has  written  and  criticize  it.  He  is  the  very  opposite 
of  the  Calvinistic  priestly  type.  His  smile  is  delightful,  his  laughter 
infectious,  and  he  radiates  light-heartedness.  There  is  something  child 
like  about  him  which  is  full  of  charm.  When  he  enters  a  room,  he 
brings  a  breath  of  fresh  air  with  him  which  lightens  the  atmosphere. 

He  is  an  extraordinary  paradox.  I  suppose  all  outstanding  men  are 
so  to  some  extent.  For  years  I  have  puzzled  over  this  problem:  why 
with  all  his  love  and  solicitude  for  the  underdog  he  yet  supports  a  sys 
tem  which  inevitably  produces  it  and  crushes  it;  why  with  all  his  pas 
sion  for  nonviolence  he  is  in  favor  of  a  political  and  social  structure 
which  is  wholly  based  on  violence  and  coercion  ?  Perhaps  it  is  not  cor 
rect  to  say  that  he  is  in  favor  of  such  a  system;  he  is  more  or  less  of  a 
philosophical  anarchist.  But,  as  the  ideal  anarchist  state  is  too  far  off 
still  and  cannot  easily  be  conceived,  he  accepts  the  present  order.  It  is 
not,  I  think,  a  question  of  means,  that  he  objects,  as  he  does,  to  the  use 
of  violence  in  bringing  about  a  change.  Quite  apart  from  the  methods 
to  be  adopted  for  changing  the  existing  order,  an  ideal  objective  can 
be  envisaged,  something  that  is  possible  of  achievement  in  the  not-dis 
tant  future. 

Sometimes  he  calls  himself  a  socialist,  but  he  uses  the  word  in  a 
sense  peculiar  to  himself  which  has  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the 
economic  framework  of  society  which  usually  goes  by  the  name  of 
socialism.  Following  his  lead,  a  number  of  prominent  Congressmen 
have  taken  to  the  use  of  that  word,  meaning  thereby  a  kind  of  mud 
dled  humanitarianism.  I  know  that  Gandhiji  is  not  ignorant  of  the 

318 


subject,  for  he  has  read  many  books  on  economics  and  socialism  and 
even  Marxism,  and  has  discussed  it  with  others.  But  I  am  becoming 
more  and  more  convinced  that  in  vital  matters  the  mind  by  itself  does 
not  carry  us  far. 

Gandhi ji  underwent  a  tremendous  conversion  during  his  early  days 
in  South  Africa,  and  this  shook  him  up  greatly  and  altered  his  whole 
outlook  on  life.  Since  then  he  has  had  a  fixed  basis  for  all  his  ideas, 
and  his  mind  is  hardly  an  open  mind.  He  listens  with  the  greatest 
patience  and  attention  to  people  who  make  new  suggestions  to  him, 
but  behind  all  his  courteous  interest  one  has  the  impression  that  one  is 
addressing  a  closed  door.  He  is  so  firmly  anchored  to  some  ideas  that 
everything  else  seems  unimportant.  To  insist  on  other  and  secondary 
matters  would  be  a  distraction  and  a  distortion  of  the  larger  scheme. 
To  hold  on  to  that  anchor  would  necessarily  result  in  a  proper  adjust 
ment  of  these  other  matters.  If  the  means  are  right,  the  end  is  bound 
to  be  right. 

That,  I  think,  is  the  main  background  of  his  thought.  He  suspects 
also  socialism,  and  more  particularly  Marxism,  because  of  their  associa 
tion  with  violence.  The  very  words  "class  war"  breathe  conflict  and 
violence  and  are  thus  repugnant  to  him.  He  has  also  no  desire  to  raise 
the  standards  of  the  masses  beyond  a  certain  very  modest  competence, 
for  higher  standards  and  leisure  may  lead  to  self-indulgence  and  sin.  It 
is  bad  enough  that  the  handful  of  the  well-to-do  are  self-indulgent;  it 
would  be  much  worse  if  their  numbers  were  added  to. 

That  outlook  is  as  far  removed  from  the  socialistic,  or  for  that  mat 
ter  the  capitalistic,  as  anything  can  be.  To  say  that  science  and  indus 
trial  technique  today  can  demonstrably  feed,  clothe,  and  house  every 
body  and  raise  their  standards  of  living  very  greatly,  if  vested  interests 
did  not  intervene,  does  not  interest  him  much,  for  he  is  not  keen  on 
those  results,  beyond  a  certain  limit.  The  promise  of  socialism  there 
fore  holds  no  attraction  for  him,  and  capitalism  is  only  partly  tolerable 
because  it  circumscribes  the  evil.  He  dislikes  both,  but  puts  up  with 
the  latter  for  the  present  as  a  lesser  evil  and  as  something  which  exists 
and  of  which  he  has  to  take  cognizance. 

I  may  be  wrong  perhaps  in  imputing  these  ideas  to  him,  but  I  do 
feel  that  he  tends  to  think  in  this  manner,  and  the  paradoxes  and  con 
fusions  in  his  utterances  that  trouble  us  are  really  due  to  entirely  differ 
ent  premises  from  which  he  starts.  He  does  not  want  people  to  make 
an  ideal  of  ever-increasing  comfort  and  leisure,  but  to  think  of  the 
moral  life,  give  up  their  bad  habits,  to  indulge  themselves  less  and  less, 

319 


and  thus  to  develop  themselves  individually  and  spiritually.  And  those 
who  wish  to  serve  the  masses  have  not  so  much  to  raise  them  mate 
rially  as  to  go  down  themselves  to  their  level  and  mix  with  them  on 
equal  terms.  In  so  doing  inevitably  they  will  help  in  raising  them 
somewhat.  That,  according  to  him,  is  true  democracy.  "Many  have 
despaired  of  resisting  me,"  he  writes  in  a  statement  he  issued  on  Sep 
tember  17,  1934.  "This  is  a  humiliating  revelation  to  me,  a  born  demo 
crat.  I  make  that  claim,  if  complete  identification  with  the  poorest  of 
mankind,  longing  to  live  no  better  than  they,  and  a  corresponding 
conscious  effort  to  approach  that  level  to  the  best  of  one's  ability,  can 
entitle  one  to  make  it." 

Gandhiji  is  always  laying  stress  on  the  idea  of  the  trusteeship  of  the 
feudal  prince,  of  the  big  landlord,  of  the  capitalist.  He  follows  a  long 
succession  of  men  of  religion.  The  Pope  has  declared  that  "the  rich 
must  consider  themselves  the  servants  of  the  Almighty  as  well  as  the 
guardians  and  the  distributors  of  his  wealth,  to  whom  Jesus  Christ 
himself  entrusted  the  fate  of  the  poor."  Popular  Hinduism  and  Islam 
repeat  this  idea  and  are  always  calling  upon  the  rich  to  be  charitable, 
and  they  respond  by  building  temples  or  mosques  or  dharamshalas,  or 
giving,  out  of  their  abundance,  coppers  or  silver  to  the  poor  and  feeling 
very  virtuous  in  consequence. 

This  religious  attitude  is  bound  up  with  the  world  of  long  ago,  when 
the  only  possible  escape  from  present  misery  was  in  the  hope  of  a 
world  to  come.  But,  though  conditions  changed  and  raised  the  human 
level  in  material  prosperity  beyond  the  wildest  dreams  of  the  past,  the 
stranglehold  of  that  past  continued,  the  stress  now  being  laid  on  cer 
tain  vague,  unmeasurable  spiritual  values. 

Gandhiji  wants  to  improve  the  individual  internally,  morally  and 
spiritually,  and  thereby  to  change  the  external  environment.  He  wants 
people  to  give  up  bad  habits  and  indulgences  and  to  become  pure.  He 
lays  stress  on  sexual  abstinence,  on  the  giving  up  of  drink,  smoking, 
etc.  Opinions  may  differ  about  the  relative  wickedness  of  these  indul 
gences,  but  can  there  be  any  doubt  that  even  from  the  individual  point 
of  view,  and  much  more  so  from  the  social,  these  personal  failings  are 
less  harmful  than  covetousness,  selfishness,  acquisitiveness,  the  fierce 
conflicts  of  individuals  for  personal  gain,  the  ruthless  struggles  of 
groups  and  classes,  the  inhuman  suppression  and  exploitation  of  one 
group  by  another,  the  terrible  wars  between  nations?  Of  course  he 
detests  all  this  violence  and  degrading  conflict.  But  are  they  not  inher 
ent  in  the  acquisitive  society  of  today  with  its  law  that  the  strong  must 

320 


prey  on  the  weak,  and  its  motto,  that,  as  of  old,  "they  shall  take  who 
have  the  power  and  they  shall  keep  who  can"?  The  profit  motive 
today  inevitably  leads  to  conflict.  The  whole  system  protects  and  gives 
every  scope  to  man's  predatory  instincts;  it  encourages  some  finer  in 
stincts,  no  doubt,  but  much  more  the  baser  instincts  of  man.  Success 
means  the  knocking  down  of  others  and  mounting  on  their  van 
quished  selves.  If  these  motives  and  ambitions  are  encouraged  by  so 
ciety  and  attract  the  best  of  our  people,  does  Gandhi ji  think  that  he 
can  achieve  his  ideal — the  moral  man — in  this  environment  ?  He  wants 
to  develop  the  spirit  of  service;  he  will  succeed  in  the  case  of  some 
individuals,  but,  so  long  as  society  puts  forward  as  exemplars  the  vic 
tors  of  an  acquisitive  society  and  the  chief  urge  as  the  personal  profit 
motive,  the  vast  majority  will  follow  this  course. 

But  the  problem  is  no  longer  merely  a  moral  or  an  ethical  one.  It  is 
a  practical  and  urgent  problem  of  today,  for  the  world  is  in  a  hopeless 
muddle,  and  some  way  out  must  be  found.  We  cannot  wait,  Micaw- 
berlike,  for  something  to  turn  up.  Nor  can  we  live  by  negation  alone, 
criticizing  the  evil  aspects  of  capitalism,  socialism,  communism,  etc., 
and  hoping  vaguely  for  the  golden  mean,  which  will  produce  a  happy 
compromise  combining  the  best  features  of  all  systems,  old  and  new. 
The  malady  has  to  be  diagnosed  and  the  cure  suggested  and  worked 
for.  It  is  quite  certain  that  we  cannot  stand  where  we  are,  nationally 
and  internationally;  we  may  try  to  go  back  or  we  may  push  forward. 
Probably  there  is  no  choice  in  the  matter,  for  going  back  seems  incon 
ceivable. 

And  yet  many  of  Gandhiji's  activities  might  lead  one  to  think  that 
he  wants  to  go  back  to  the  narrowest  autarchy,  not  only  a  self -sufficient 
nation,  but  almost  a  self-sufficient  village.  In  primitive  communities 
the  village  was  more  or  less  self-sufficient  and  fed  and  clothed  itself 
and  otherwise  provided  for  its  needs.  Of  necessity  that  means  an  ex 
tremely  low  standard  of  living.  I  do  not  think  Gandhiji  is  permanently 
aiming  at  this,  for  it  is  an  impossible  objective.  The  huge  populations 
of  today  would  not  be  able  even  to  subsist  in  some  countries;  they 
would  not  tolerate  this  reversion  to  scarcity  and  starvation.  It  is  possi 
ble,  I  think,  that  in  an  agricultural  country  like  India,  so  very  low  is 
our  present  standard,  that  there  might  be  a  slight  improvement  for 
the  masses  with  the  development  of  village  industries.  But  we  are  tied 
up,  as  every  country  is  tied  up,  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  it  seems 
to  me  quite  impossible  for  us  to  cut  adrift.  We  must  think,  therefore, 
in  terms  of  the  world,  and  in  these  terms  a  narrow  autarchy  is  out  of 

321 


the  question.  Personally  I  consider  it  undesirable  from  every  point  of 
view. 

Inevitably  we  are  led  to  the  only  possible  solution — the  establishment 
of  a  socialist  order,  first  within  national  boundaries,  and  eventually  in 
the  world  as  a  whole,  with  a  controlled  production  and  distribution  of 
wealth  for  the  public  good.  How  this  is  to  be  brought  about  is  another 
matter,  but  it  is  clear  that  the  good  of  a  nation  or  of  mankind  must 
not  be  held  up  because  some  people  who  profit  by  the  existing  order 
object  to  the  change.  If  political  or  social  institutions  stand  in  the  way 
of  such  a  change,  they  have  to  be  removed.  To  compromise  with  them 
at  the  cost  of  that  desirable  and  practical  ideal  would  be  a  gross  be 
trayal.  Such  a  change  may  partly  be  forced  or  expedited  by  world  con 
ditions,  but  it  can  hardly  take  place  without  the  willing  consent  or 
acquiescence  of  the  great  majority  of  the  people  concerned.  They  have 
therefore  to  be  converted  and  won  over  to  it.  Conspiratorial  violence 
of  a  small  group  will  not  help.  Naturally  efforts  must  be  made  to  win 
over  even  those  who  profit  by  the  existing  system,  but  it  is  highly  un 
likely  that  any  large  percentage  of  them  will  be  converted. 

The  \hadi  movement,  hand-spinning  and  hand-weaving,  which  is 
Gandhiji's  special  favorite,  is  an  intensification  of  individualism  in  pro 
duction,  and  is  thus  a  throwback  to  the  preindustrial  age.  As  a  solution 
of  any  vital  present-day  problem  it  cannot  be  taken  seriously,  and  it 
produces  a  mentality  which  may  become  an  obstacle  to  growth  in  the 
right  direction.  Nevertheless,  as  a  temporary  measure  I  am  convinced 
that  it  has  served  a  useful  purpose,  and  it  is  likely  to  be  helpful  for 
some  time  to  come,  so  long  as  the  State  itself  does  not  undertake  the 
rightful  solution  of  agrarian  and  industrial  problems  on  a  countrywide 
scale. 

Again  I  think  of  the  paradox  that  is  Gandhiji.  With  all  his  keen  in 
tellect  and  passion  for  bettering  the  downtrodden  and  oppressed,  why 
does  he  support  a  system,  and  a  system  which  is  obviously  decaying, 
which  creates  this  misery  and  waste?  He  seeks  a  way  out,  it  is  true, 
but  is  not  that  way  to  the  past  barred  and  bolted?  And  meanwhile  he 
blesses  all  the  relics  of  the  old  order  which  stand  as  obstacles  in  the 
way  of  advance — the  feudal  states,  the  big  zamindaris  and  talukdaris, 
the  present  capitalist  system.  Is  it  reasonable  to  believe  in  the  theory 
of  trusteeship — to  give  unchecked  power  and  wealth  to  an  individual 
and  to  expect  him  to  use  it  entirely  for  the  public  good?  Are  the  best 
of  us  so  perfect  as  to  be  trusted  in  this  way?  Even  Plato's  philosopher- 
kings  could  hardly  have  borne  this  burden  worthily.  And  is  it  good 

322 


for  the  others  to  have  even  these  benevolent  supermen  over  them?  But 
there  are  no  supermen  or  philosopher-kings;  there  are  only  frail  human 
beings  who  cannot  help  thinking  that  their  own  personal  good  or  the 
advancement  of  their  own  ideas  is  identical  with  the  public  good.  The 
snobbery  of  birth,  position,  and  economic  power  is  perpetuated,  and  the 
consequences  in  many  ways  are  disastrous. 

Again,  I  would  repeat  that  I  am  not  at  present  considering  the  ques 
tion  of  how  to  effect  the  change,  of  how  to  get  rid  of  the  obstacles  in 
the  way,  by  compulsion  or  conversion,  violence  or  nonviolence.  I  shall 
deal  with  this  aspect  later.  But  the  necessity  for  the  change  must  be 
recognized  and  clearly  stated.  If  leaders  and  thinkers  do  not  clearly 
envisage  this  and  state  it,  how  can  they  expect  even  to  convert  anybody 
to  their  way  of  thinking,  or  develop  the  necessary  ideology  in  the  peo 
ple?  Events  are  undoubtedly  the  most  powerful  educators,  but  events 
have  to  be  properly  understood  and  interpreted  if  their  significance  is 
to  be  realized  and  properly  directed  action  is  to  result  from  them. 

I  have  often  been  asked  by  friends  and  colleagues  who  have  occa 
sionally  been  exasperated  by  my  utterances:  Have  you  not  come  across 
good  and  benevolent  princes,  charitable  landlords,  well-meaning  and 
amiable  capitalists?  Indeed  I  have.  I  myself  belong  to  a  class  which 
mixes  with  these  lords  of  the  land  and  owners  of  wealth.  I  am  a  typical 
bourgeois,  brought  up  in  bourgeois  surroundings,  with  all  the  early 
prejudices  that  this  training  has  given  me.  Communists  have  called  me 
a  petty  bourgeois  with  perfect  justification.  Perhaps  they  might  label 
me  now  one  of  the  "repentant  bourgeoisie."  But  whatever  I  may  be  is 
beside  the  point.  It  is  absurd  to  consider  national,  international,  eco 
nomic,  and  social  problems  in  terms  of  isolated  individuals.  Those  very 
friends  who  question  me  are  never  tired  of  repeating  that  our  quarrel 
is  with  the  sin  and  not  the  sinner.  I  would  not  even  go  so  far.  I  would 
say  that  my  quarrel  is  with  a  system  and  not  with  individuals.  A 
system  is  certainly  embodied  to  a  great  extent  in  individuals  and 
groups,  and  these  individuals  and  groups  have  to  be  converted  or  com 
bated.  But,  if  a  system  has  ceased  to  be  of  value  and  is  a  drag,  it  has 
to  go,  and  the  classes  or  groups  that  cling  to  it  will  also  have  to  un 
dergo  a  transformation.  That  process  of  change  should  involve  as  little 
suffering  as  possible,  but  unhappily  suffering  and  dislocation  are  inevi 
table.  We  cannot  put  up  with  a  major  evil  for  fear  of  a  far  lesser  one, 
which  in  any  event  is  beyond  our  power  to  remedy. 

Every  type  of  human  association — political,  social,  or  economic — has 
some  philosophy  at  the  back  of  it.  When  these  associations  change,  this 

323 


philosophical  foundation  must  also  change  in  order  to  fit  in  with  it 
and  to  utilize  it  to  the  best  advantage.  Usually  the  philosophy  lags  be 
hind  the  course  of  events,  and  this  lag  creates  all  the  trouble.  Democ 
racy  and  capitalism  grew  up  together  in  the  nineteenth  century,  but 
they  were  not  mutually  compatible.  There  was  a  basic  contradiction 
between  them,  for  democracy  laid  stress  on  the  power  of  the  many, 
while  capitalism  gave  real  power  to  the  few.  This  ill-assorted  pair  car 
ried  on  somehow  because  political  parliamentary  democracy  was  in 
itself  a  very  limited  kind  of  democracy  and  did  not  interfere  much 
with  the  growth  of  monopoly  and  power  concentration. 

Even  so,  as  the  spirit  of  democracy  grew,  a  divorce  became  inevitable, 
and  the  time  for  that  has  come  now.  Parliamentary  democracy  is  in 
disrepute  today,  and  as  a  reaction  from  it  all  manner  of  new  slogans 
fill  the  air.  Because  of  this,  the  British  Government  in  India  becomes 
more  reactionary  still  and  makes  it  an  excuse  for  withholding  from  us 
even  the  outer  forms  of  political  freedom.  The  Indian  princes,  strangely 
enough,  make  this  a  justification  for  their  unchecked  autocracy  and 
stoutly  declare  their  intention  of  maintaining  medieval  conditions  in 
their  domains  such  as  exist  nowhere  else  in  the  world.  But  the  failure 
of  parliamentary  democracy  is  not  that  it  has  gone  too  far,  but  that  it 
has  not  gone  far  enough.  It  was  not  democratic  enough  because  it  did 
not  provide  for  economic  democracy,  and  its  methods  were  slow  and 
cumbrous  and  unsuited  to  a  period  of  rapid  change. 

The  Indian  states  represent  today  probably  the  extremest  type  of  au 
tocracy  existing  in  the  world.  They  are,  of  course,  subject  to  British 
suzerainty,  but  the  British  Government  interferes  only  for  the  protec 
tion  or  advancement  of  British  interests.  A  veil  of  mystery  surrounds 
these  states.  Newspapers  are  not  encouraged  there,  and  at  the  most  a 
literary  or  semiofficial  weekly  might  flourish.  Outside  newspapers  are 
often  barred.  Literacy  is  very  low,  except  in  some  of  the  southern 
states — Travancore,  Cochin,  etc. — where  it  is  far  higher  than  in  British 
India.  The  principal  news  that  comes  from  the  states  is  of  a  viceregal 
visit,  with  all  its  pomp  and  ceremonial  and  mutually  complimentary 
speeches,  or  of  an  extravagantly  celebrated  marriage  or  birthday  of  the 
ruler,  or  an  agrarian  rising.  Special  laws  protect  the  princes  from  criti 
cism,  even  in  British  India,  and  within  the  states  the  mildest  criticism 
is  rigorously  suppressed.  Public  meetings  are  almost  unknown,  and 
even  meetings  for  social  purposes  are  often  banned.  Leading  public 
men  from  outside  are  frequently  prevented  from  entering  the  states. 

When  such  conditions  prevail  in  the  states,  it  would  have  been  nat- 

324 


ural  for  the  Congress  to  stand  up  for  the  elementary  rights  of  the  peo 
ple  of  the  states  and  to  criticize  their  wholesale  suppression.  But  Gan- 
dhiji  fathered  a  novel  policy  on  the  Congress  in  regard  to  the  states— 
the  "policy  of  noninterference  in  the  internal  administration  of  the 
states."  This  hush-hush  policy  has  been  adhered  to  by  him  in  spite  of 
the  most  extraordinary  and  painful  occurrences  in  the  states,  and  in 
spite  of  wholly  unprovoked  attacks  by  the  states'  governments  on  the 
Congress.  Apparently  the  fear  is  that  Congress  criticism  might  offend 
the  rulers  and  make  it  more  difficult  to  "convert"  them. 

More  or  less  the  same  considerations  apply  to  the  talukdari  and  big 
zamindari  system.  It  hardly  seems  a  matter  for  argument  that  this 
semifeudal  system  is  out  of  date  and  is  a  great  hindrance  to  produc 
tion  and  general  progress.  It  conflicts  even  with  a  developing  capital 
ism,  and  almost  all  over  the  world  large  landed  estates  have  gradually 
vanished  and  given  place  to  peasant  proprietors.  I  had  always  imagined 
that  the  only  possible  question  that  could  arise  in  India  was  one  of 
compensation.  But  to  my  surprise  I  have  discovered  during  the  last  year 
or  so  (1934-5)  that  Gandhiji  approves  of  the  talukdari  system  as  such 
and  wants  it  to  continue.  He  said  in  July  1934  at  Cawnpore  that  "better 
relations  between  landlords  and  tenants  could  be  brought  about  by  a 
change  of  hearts  on  both  sides.  If  that  was  done,  both  could  live  in 
peace  and  harmony."  He  was  "never  in  favor  of  abolition  of  the  taluk 
dari  or  zamindari  system,  and  those  who  thought  that  it  should  be  abol 
ished  did  not  know  their  own  minds."  (This  last  charge  is  rather 
unkind.) 

He  is  further  reported  to  have  said:  "I  shall  be  no  party  to  dispossess 
ing  propertied  classes  of  their  private  property  without  just  cause.  My 
objective  is  to  reach  your  hearts  and  convert  you  [he  was  addressing  a 
deputation  of  big  zamindars]  so  that  you  may  hold  all  your  private 
property  in  trust  for  your  tenants  and  use  it  primarily  for  their  welfare. 
.  .  .  But  supposing  that  there  is  an  attempt  unjustly  to  deprive  you  of 

your  property,  you  will  find  me  fighting  on  your  side The  socialism 

and  communism  of  the  West  is  based  on  certain  conceptions  which  are 
fundamentally  different  from  ours.  One  such  conception  is  their  belief 
in  the  essential  selfishness  of  human  nature.  .  .  .  Our  socialism  and 
communism  should  therefore  be  based  on  nonviolence  and  on  the 
harmonious  co-operation  of  labor  and  capital,  landlord  and  tenant." 

I  do  not  know  if  there  are  any  such  differences  in  the  basic  concep 
tions  of  the  East  and  West.  Perhaps  there  are.  But  an  obvious  differ 
ence  in  the  recent  past  has  been  that  the  Indian  capitalist  and  landlord 

325 


have  ignored  far  more  the  interests  of  their  workers  and  tenants  than 
their  Western  prototypes.  There  has  been  practically  no  attempt  on 
the  part  of  the  Indian  landlord  to  interest  himself  in  any  social  service 
for  the  tenants'  welfare.  Many  landlords  have  been  deprived  of  their 
lands  by  moneylenders,  and  the  smaller  ones  have  sunk  to  the  position 
of  tenants  on  the  land  they  once  owned.  These  moneylenders  from  the 
city  advanced  money  on  mortgages  and  foreclosed,  thus  blossoming 
out  into  zamindars;  according  to  Gandhi ji,  they  are  now  the  trustees 
for  the  unhappy  people  whom  they  have  themselves  dispossessed  of 
their  lands,,  and  are  expected  to  devote  their  income  primarily  to  the 
welfare  of  their  tenantry. 

If  the  talukdari  system  is  good,  why  should  it  not  be  introduced  all 
over  India?  Large  tracts  of  India  have  peasant  proprietors.  I  wonder 
if  Gandhi ji  would  be  agreeable  to  the  creation  of  large  zamindaris  and 
taluks  in  Gujrat  ?  I  imagine  not.  But  then  why  is  one  land  system  good 
for  the  United  Provinces  or  Behar  or  Bengal,  and  another  for  Gujrat 
and  the  Punjab?  Presumably  there  is  not  any  vital  difference  between 
the  people  of  the  north  and  east  and  west  and  south  of  India,  and  their 
basic  conceptions  are  the  same.  It  comes  to  this,  then,  that  whatever 
is  should  continue,  the  status  quo  should  be  maintained.  There  should 
be  no  economic  inquiry  as  to  what  is  most  desirable  or  beneficial  for 
the  people,  no  attempts  to  change  present  conditions;  all  that  is  neces 
sary  is  to  change  the  people's  hearts.  That  is  the  pure  religious  attitude 
to  life  and  its  problems.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  politics  or  economics 
or  sociology.  And  yet  Gandhiji  goes  beyond  this  in  the  political,  na 
tional  sphere. 

Such  are  some  of  the  paradoxes  that  face  India  today.  We  have  man 
aged  to  tie  ourselves  up  into  a  number  of  knots,  and  it  is  difficult  to 
get  on  till  we  untie  them.  That  release  will  not  come  emotionally. 
What  is  better,  Spinoza  asked  long  ago,  "freedom  through  knowledge 
and  understanding,  or  emotional  bondage?"  He  preferred  the  former. 


XLVIII 

DEHRA  JAIL  AGAIN 

I  WAS  NOT  flourishing  in  Alipore  Jail.  My  weight  had  gone  down  con 
siderably,  and  the  Calcutta  air  and  increasing  heat  were  distressing  me. 
There  were  rumors  of  my  transfer  to  a  better  climate.  On  May  7  I  was 

326 


told  to  gather  my  belongings  and  to  march  out  o£  the  jail.  I  was  being 
sent  to  Dehra  Dun  Jail.  The  drive  through  Calcutta  in  the  cool  eve 
ning  air  was  very  pleasant  after  some  months  o£  seclusion,  and  the 
crowds  at  the  big  Howrah  station  were  fascinating. 

I  was  glad  of  my  transfer  and  looked  forward  to  Dehra  Dun  with 
its  near-by  mountains.  On  arrival  I  found  that  all  was  not  as  it  used 
to  be  nine  months  earlier,  when  I  had  left  it  for  Naini.  I  was  put  in  a 
new  place,  an  old  cattle  shed  cleaned  up  and  fitted  out. 

As  a  cell  it  was  not  bad,  and  there  was  a  little  veranda  attached  to  it. 
There  was  also  a  small  yard  adjoining,  about  fifty  feet  in  length.  The 
cell  was  better  than  the  ancient  one  I  had  had  previously  in  Dehra,  but 
soon  I  discovered  that  other  changes  were  not  for  the  better.  The  sur 
rounding  wall,  which  had  been  ten  feet  high,  had  just  been  raised, 
especially  for  my  benefit,  by  another  four  or  five  feet.  The  view  of  the 
hills  I  had  so  looked  forward  to  was  completely  cut  off,  and  I  could 
just  see  a  few  treetops.  I  was  in  this  jail  for  over  three  months,  and  I 
never  had  even  a  glimpse  of  the  mountains.  I  was  not  allowed  to  walk 
outside  in  front  of  the  jail  gate,  as  I  used  to,  and  my  little  yard  was 
considered  quite  big  enough  for  exercise. 

These  and  other  new  restrictions  were  disappointing,  and  I  felt  irri 
tated.  I  grew  listless  and  disinclined  to  take  even  the  little  exercise  that 
my  yard  allowed.  I  had  hardly  ever  felt  quite  so  lonely  and  cut  off 
from  the  world.  The  solitary  confinement  began  to  tell  on  my  nerves, 
and  physically  and  mentally  I  declined.  On  the  other  side  of  the  wall, 
only  a  few  feet  away,  I  knew  there  was  freshness  and  fragrance,  the 
cool  smell  of  grass  and  soft  earth,  and  distant  vistas.  But  they  were  all 
out  of  reach,  and  my  eyes  grew  weary  and  heavy,  faced  always  by  those 
walls.  There  was  not  even  the  usual  movement  of  prison  life,  for  I  was 
kept  apart  and  by  myself. 

After  six  weeks  the  monsoon  broke  and  it  rained  in  torrents;  we  had 
twelve  inches  of  rain  during  the  first  week.  There  was  a  change  in  the 
air  and  whisperings  of  new  life;  the  temperature  came  down,  and  the 
body  felt  relaxed  and  relieved.  But  there  was  no  relief  for  the  eyes  or 
the  mind.  Sometimes  the  iron  door  of  my  yard  would  open  to  allow 
a  warder  to  come  in  or  go  out,  and  for  a  few  seconds  I  had  a  sudden 
glimpse  of  the  outside  world — green  fields  and  trees,  bright  with  color 
and  glistening  with  pearly  drops  of  rain — for  a  moment  only,  and  then 
it  all  vanished  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  The  door  was  hardly  ever 
fully  opened.  Apparently  the  warders  had  instructions  not  to  open  it 
if  I  was  anywhere  near  and,  even  when  they  opened  it,  to  do  so  just 

327 


a  little.  These  brief  glimpses  of  greenery  and  freshness  were  hardly 
welcome  to  me.  That  sight  produced  in  me  a  kind  of  nostalgia,  a  heart 
ache,  and  I  would  even  avoid  looking  out  when  the  door  opened. 

But  all  this  unhappiness  was  not  really  the  fault  of  the  jail,  though  it 
contributed  to  it.  It  was  the  reaction  of  outside  events — Kamala's  illness 
and  my  political  worries.  I  was  beginning  to  realize  that  Kamala  was 
again  in  the  grip  of  her  old  disease,  and  I  felt  helpless  and  unable  to 
be  of  any  service  to  her.  I  knew  that  my  presence  by  her  side  would 
have  made  a  difference. 

Unlike  Alipore,  Dehra  Dun  Jail  allowed  me  a  daily  newspaper,  and 
I  could  keep  in  touch  with  political  and  other  developments  outside. 
In  Patna  the  All-India  Congress  Committee  met  after  nearly  three 
years  (for  most  of  this  time  it  had  been  unlawful),  and  its  proceedings 
were  depressing.  It  surprised  me  that  no  attempt  was  made  at  this  first 
meeting,  after  so  much  that  had  happened  in  India  and  the  world,  to 
analyze  the  situation,  to  have  full  discussions,  to  try  to  get  out  of  old 
ruts.  Gandhiji  seemed  to  be,  from  a  distance,  his  old  dictatorial  self — 
"If  you  choose  to  follow  my  lead,  you  have  to  accept  my  conditions," 
he  said.  He  told  the  All-India  Congress  Committee  to  be  businesslike 
and  to  adopt  the  resolutions  placed  before  them  by  the  Working  Com 
mittee  with  speed,  and  then  he  went  away. 

It  is  probably  true  that  prolonged  discussions  would  not  have  im 
proved  matters.  Two  groups  took  shape:  one  desiring  purely  constitu 
tional  activities  through  the  legislatures,  the  other  thinking  rather 
vaguely  along  socialistic  lines.  The  majority  of  the  members  belonged 
to  neither  of  these  groups.  They  disliked  a  reversion  to  constitutional 
ism,  and  at  the  same  time  socialism  frightened  them  a  little  and  seemed 
to  them  to  introduce  an  element  which  might  split  their  ranks.  They 
had  no  constructive  ideas,  and  the  one  hope  and  sheet  anchor  they 
possessed  was  Gandhiji.  As  of  old,  they  turned  to  him  and  followed  his 
lead,  even  though  many  of  them  did  not  wholly  approve  of  what  he 
said.  Gandhij i's  support  of  the  moderate  constitutional  elements  gave 
them  dominance  in  the  Committee  and  the  Congress. 

The  reaction  took  the  Congress  further  back  than  I  had  thought.  At 
no  time  during  the  last  fifteen  years,  ever  since  the  advent  of  nonco- 
operation,  had  Congress  leaders  talked  in  this  ultraconstitutional 
fashion. 

The  proscription  of  the  Congress  was  ended  by  the  Government,  and 
it  became  a  legal  organization.  But  many  of  its  associated  and  sub 
sidiary  bodies  continued  to  be  illegal,  such  as  its  volunteer  department, 

328 


the  Seva  Dal,  as  also  a  number  of  \isan  sabhas,  which  were  semi- 
independent  peasant  unions,  and  several  educational  institutions  and 
youth  leagues,  including  a  children's  organization.  In  particular  the 
Khudai  Khidmatgars,  or  the  Frontier  Redstarts,  as  they  are  called, 
were  still  outlawed.  This  organization  had  become  a  regular  part  of 
the  Congress  in  1931,  and  represented  it  in  the  Frontier  Province. 
Thus,  although  the  Congress  had  completely  drawn  off  the  direct 
action  part  of  the  struggle  and  had  reverted  to  constitutional  ways,  the 
Government  kept  on  all  the  special  laws  meant  for  civil  disobedience 
and  even  continued  the  proscription  of  important  parts  of  the  Congress 
organization.  Special  attention  was  also  paid  to  the  suppression  of 
peasant  organizations  and  labor  unions,  while,  it  was  interesting  to 
note,  high  Government  officials  went  about  urging  the  zamindars  and 
landlords  to  organize  themselves.  Every  facility  was  offered  to  these 
landlords'  organizations.  The  two  major  ones  in  the  United  Provinces 
were  having  their  subscriptions  collected  for  them  by  official  agency, 
together  with  the  revenue  or  taxes. 

One  of  the  secretaries  of  the  Hindu  Mahasabha  actually  went  out  of 
his  way  to  approve  of  the  continuation  of  the  ban  on  the  "Redshirts," 
and  to  pat  Government  on  the  back  for  it.  This  amazed  me.  Apart 
from  this  question  of  principle,  it  was  well  known  that  these  Frontier 
people  had  behaved  wonderfully  during  the  years  of  struggle;  and  their 
leader,  Khan  Abdul  Ghaffar  Khan,  one  of  the  bravest  and  straightest 
men  in  India,  was  still  in  prison — a  State  prisoner  kept  confined  with 
out  any  trial.  It  seemed  to  me  that  communal  bias  could  hardly  go 
further. 

I  was  much  upset  by  this  Hindu  Sabha  secretary's  statement.  It  was 
bad  enough  in  itself,  but  to  my  mind  it  appeared  as  a  symbol  of  the 
new  state  of  affairs  in  the  country.  In  the  heat  of  that  summer  after 
noon  I  dozed  off,  and  I  remember  having  a  curious  dream.  Abdul 
Ghaffar  Khan  was  being  attacked  on  all  sides,  and  I  was  fighting  to 
defend  him.  I  woke  up  in  an  exhausted  state,  feeling  very  miserable, 
and  my  pillow  was  wet  with  tears.  This  surprised  me,  for  in  my  wak 
ing  state  I  was  not  liable  to  such  emotional  outbursts. 

My  nerves  were  obviously  in  a  bad  way  in  those  days.  My  sleep  be 
came  troubled  and  disturbed,  which  was  very  unusual  for  me,  and  all 
manner  of  nightmares  came  to  me.  Sometimes  I  would  shout  out  in 
my  sleep.  Once  evidently  the  shouting  had  been  more  vigorous  than 
usual,  and  I  woke  up  with  a  start  to  find  two  jail  warders  standing 

329 


near  my  bed,  rather  worried  at  my  noises.  I  had  dreamed  that  I  was 
being  strangled. 

About  this  time  a  resolution  of  the  Congress  Working  Committee 
had  also  a  painful  effect  on  me.  This  resolution  was  passed,  it  was 
stated,  "in  view  of  the  loose  talk  about  the  confiscation  of  private  prop 
erty  and  necessity  of  class  war,"  and  it  proceeded  to  remind  Congress 
men  that  the  Karachi  resolution  "neither  contemplates  confiscation  of 
private  property  without  just  cause  or  compensation,  nor  advocacy  of 
class  war.  The  Working  Committee  is  further  of  the  opinion  that 
confiscation  and  class  war  are  contrary  to  the  Congress  creed  of  non 
violence."  The  resolution  was  loosely  worded  and  exhibited  a  certain 
amount  of  ignorance  on  the  part  of  the  framers  as  to  what  class  war 
was.  It  was  obviously  aimed  at  the  newly  formed  Congress  Socialist 
party.  There  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  been  no  talk  of  confiscation  on 
the  part  of  any  responsibile  member  of  this  group;  there  had,  how 
ever,  been  frequent  reference  to  the  existence  of  class  war  under  present 
conditions.  The  Working  Committee's  resolution  seemed  to  hint  that 
any  person  believing  in  the  existence  of  this  class  conflict  could  not 
even  be  an  ordinary  member  of  the  Congress. 

The  Working  Committee  subsequently  tried  to  explain  its  resolu 
tion  on  class  war.  The  importance  of  that  resolution  lay  not  so  much 
in  its  language  or  what  it  definitely  laid  down,  as  in  the  fact  that  it  was 
yet  another  indication  of  the  way  Congress  was  going.  The  resolution 
had  obviously  been  inspired  by  the  new  parliamentary  wing  of  the 
Congress  aiming  at  gaining  the  support  o£  men  of  property  in  the 
coming  election  to  the  Legislative  Assembly.  At  their  instance  the 
Congress  was  looking  more  and  more  to  the  Right  and  trying  to  win 
over  the  moderate  and  conservative  elements  in  the  country.  Soothing 
words  were  being  addressed  even  to  those  who  had  been  hostile  to  the 
Congress  movements  in  the  past  and  had  sided  with  the  Government 
during  the  continuance  of  civil  disobedience.  A  clamorous  and  critical 
Left  wing  was  felt  to  be  a  handicap  in  this  process  of  conciliation  and 
"conversion,"  and  the  Working  Committee's  resolution,  as  well  as 
many  other  individual  utterances,  made  it  clear  that  the  Congress 
Executive  were  not  going  to  be  moved  from  their  new  path  by  this 
nibbling  from  the  Left.  If  the  Left  did  not  behave,  it  would  be  sat  upon 
and  eliminated  from  the  Congress  ranks.  The  manifesto  issued  by  the 
Parliamentary  Board  of  the  Congress  contained  a  program  which  was 
far  more  cautious  and  moderate  than  any  that  the  Congress  had  spon 
sored  during  the  past  fifteen  years. 

330 


On  the  Government  side  there  was  an  air  o£  triumph,  in  no  way 
concealed,  at  what  they  considered  the  success  o£  their  policy  in  sup 
pressing  civil  disobedience  and  its  offshoots.  The  operation  had  been 
successful,  and  for  the  moment  is  mattered  little  whether  the  patient 
lived  or  died.  They  proposed  to  continue  the  same  policy,  with  minor 
variations,  even  though  the  Congress  had  been  for  the  moment  brought 
round  to  some  extent.  Perhaps  they  also  thought  that  in  continuing  to 
suppress  the  more  advanced  elements  in  the  Congress  or  in  the  labor 
and  peasant  ranks,  they  would  not  greatly  offend  the  more  cautious 
leaders  of  the  Congress. 

To  some  extent  my  thoughts  in  Dehra  Dun  Jail  ran  along  these 
channels.  I  was  really  not  in  a  position  to  form  definite  opinions  about 
the  course  of  events,  for  I  was  out  of  touch.  In  Alipore  I  had  been  al 
most  completely  out  of  touch;  in  Dehra  a  newspaper  of  the  Govern 
ment's  choice  brought  me  partial  and  sometimes  one-sided  news.  It  is 
quite  possible  that  contacts  with  my  colleagues  outside  and  a  closer 
study  of  the  situation  would  have  resulted  in  my  varying  my  opinions 
in  some  degree. 

Distressed  with  the  present,  I  began  thinking  of  the  past,  of  what 
had  happened  politically  in  India  since  I  began  to  take  some  part  in 
public  affairs.  How  far  had  we  been  right  in  what  we  had  done?  How 
far  wrong?  It  struck  me  that  my  thinking  would  be  more  orderly  and 
helpful  if  I  put  it  down  on  paper.  This  would  also  help  in  engaging 
my  mind  in  a  definite  task  and  so  diverting  it  from  worry  and  de 
pression.  So  in  the  month  of  June  1934  I  began  this  "autobiographical 
narrative"  in  Dehra  Jail,  and  for  the  last  eight  months  I  have  con 
tinued  it  when  the  mood  to  do  so  has  seized  me.  Often  there  have  been 
intervals  when  I  felt  no  desire  to  write;  three  of  these  gaps  were  each 
of  them  nearly  a  month  long.  But  I  managed  to  continue,  and  now 
I  am  nearing  the  end  of  this  personal  journey.  Most  of  this  has  been 
written  under  peculiarly  distressing  circumstances  when  I  was  suf 
fering  from  depression  and  emotional  strain.  Perhaps  some  of  this 
is  reflected  in  what  I  have  written,  but  this  very  writing  helped  me 
greatly  to  pull  myself  out  of  the  present  with  all  its  worries.  As  I  wrote, 
I  was  hardly  thinking  of  an  outside  audience;  I  was  addressing  myself, 
framing  questions  and  answering  them  for  my  own  benefit,  sometimes 
even  drawing  some  amusement  from  it.  I  wanted  as  far  as  possible  to 
think  straight,  and  I  imagined  that  this  review  of  the  past  might  help 
me  to  do  so. 

Toward  the  end  of  July,  Kamala's  condition  rapidly  deteriorated, 


and  within  a  few  days  became  critical.  On  August  n  I  was  suddenly 
asked  to  leave  Dehra  Jail,  and  that  night  I  was  sent  under  police 
escort  to  Allahabad.  The  next  evening  we  reached  Prayag  station  in 
Allahabad,  and  there  I  was  informed  by  the  district  magistrate  that  I 
was  being  released  temporarily  so  that  I  might  visit  my  ailing  wife.  It 
was  six  months  to  a  day  from  the  time  of  my  arrest. 


XLIX 

ELEVEN  DAYS 

For  the  Sword  outwears  its  sheath, 
And  the  soul  wears  out  the  breast. 

— BYRON. 

MY  RELEASE  WAS  temporary.  I  was  given  to  understand  that  it  was  for 
a  day  or  two  or  for  such  longer  period  as  the  doctors  might  think 
absolutely  necessary.  It  was  a  peculiar  position,  full  of  uncertainty,  and 
it  was  not  possible  for  me  to  settle  down  to  anything.  A  fixed  period 
would  have  enabled  me  to  know  how  I  stood,  and  I  would  have  tried 
to  adjust  myself  to  it.  As  it  was,  any  day,  at  any  moment,  I  might  be 
taken  back  to  prison. 

The  change  was  sudden,  and  I  was  wholly  unprepared  for  it.  From 
solitary  confinement  to  a  crowded  house  with  doctors,  nurses,  and 
relatives.  My  daughter  Indira  had  also  come  from  Santiniketan.  Many 
friends  were  continually  coming  to  see  me  and  inquire  after  Kamala's 
health.  The  style  of  living  was  quite  different;  there  were  home  com 
forts,  better  food.  And  coloring  all  this  background  was  anxiety  for 
Kamala's  serious  condition. 

There  she  lay,  frail  and  utterly  weak,  a  shadow  of  herself,  struggling 
feebly  with  her  illness,  and  the  thought  that  she  might  leave  me  be 
came  an  intolerable  obsession.  It  was  eighteen  and  a  half  years  since 
our  marriage,  and  my  mind  wandered  back  to  that  day  and  to  all  that 
these  succeeding  years  had  brought  us.  I  was  twenty-six  at  the  time, 
and  she  was  about  seventeen,  a  slip  of  a  girl,  utterly  unsophisticated 
in  the  ways  of  the  world.  The  difference  in  our  ages  was  considerable, 
but  greater  still  was  the  difference  in  our  mental  outlook,  for  I  was  far 
more  grown-up  than  she  was.  And  yet  with  all  my  appearance  of 
worldly  wisdom  I  was  very  boyish,  and  I  hardly  realized  that  this 

332 


delicate,  sensitive  girl's  mind  was  slowly  unfolding  like  a  flower  and 
required  gentle  and  careful  tending.  We  were  attracted  to  each  other 
and  got  on  well  enough,  but  our  backgrounds  were  different,  and 
there  was  a  want  of  adjustment.  These  maladjustments  would  some 
times  lead  to  friction,  and  there  were  many  petty  quarrels  over  triviali 
ties,  boy-and-girl  affairs  which  did  not  last  long  and  ended  in  a  quick 
reconciliation.  We  both  had  quick  tempers,  sensitive  natures,  and 
childish  notions  of  keeping  our  dignity.  In  spite  of  this  our  attach 
ment  grew,  though  the  want  of  adjustment  lessened  only  slowly. 
Twenty-one  months  after  our  marriage,  Indira,  our  daughter  and  only 
child,  arrived. 

Our  marriage  had  almost  coincided  with  new  developments  in  poli 
tics,  and  my  absorption  in  them  grew.  They  were  the  home-rule  days, 
and  soon  after  came  martial  law  in  the  Punjab  and  nonco-operation, 
and  more  and  more  I  was  involved  in  the  dust  and  tumble  of  public 
affairs.  So  great  became  my  concentration  in  these  activities  that,  all 
unconsciously,  I  almost  overlooked  her  and  left  her  to  her  own  re 
sources,  just  when  she  required  my  full  co-operation.  My  affection  for 
her  continued  and  even  grew,  and  it  was  a  great  comfort  to  know  that 
she  was  there  to  help  me  with  her  soothing  influence.  She  gave  me 
strength,  but  she  must  have  suffered  and  felt  a  little  neglected.  An 
unkindness  to  her  would  almost  have  been  better  than  this  semifor- 
getful,  casual  attitude. 

And  then  came  her  recurring  illness  and  my  long  absences  in  prison, 
when  we  could  only  meet  at  jail  interviews.  The  civil  disobedience 
movement  brought  her  in  the  front  rank  of  our  fighters,  and  she  re 
joiced  when  she  too  went  to  prison.  We  grew  ever  nearer  to  each 
other.  Our  rare  meetings  became  precious,  and  we  looked  forward  to 
them  and  counted  the  days  that  intervened.  We  could  not  get  tired  of 
each  other  or  stale,  for  there  was  always  a  freshness  and  novelty  about 
our  meetings  and  brief  periods  together.  Each  of  us  was  continually 
making  fresh  discoveries  in  the  other,  though  sometimes  perhaps  the 
new  discoveries  were  not  to  our  liking.  Even  our  grown-up  disagree 
ments  had  something  boyish  and  girlish  about  them. 

After  eighteen  years  of  married  life  she  had  still  retained  her  girlish 
and  virginal  appearance;  there  was  nothing  matronly  about  her.  Al 
most  she  might  have  been  the  bride  that  came  to  our  house  so  long 
ago.  But  I  had  changed  vastly,  and,  though  I  was  fit  and  supple  and 
active  enough  for  my  age — and,  I  was  told,  I  still  possessed  some  boy 
ish  traits — my  looks  betrayed  me.  I  was  partly  bald,  and  my  hair  was 

333 


gray;  lines  and  furrows  crossed  my  face,  and  dark  shadows  sur 
rounded  my  eyes.  The  last  four  years  with  their  troubles  and  worries 
had  left  many  a  mark  on  me.  Often,  in  these  later  years,  when  Ka- 
mala  and  I  had  gone  out  together  in  a  strange  place,  she  was  mistaken, 
to  my  embarrassment,  for  my  daughter.  She  and  Indira  looked  like 
two  sisters. 

Eighteen  years  of  married  life!  But  how  many  long  years  out  of 
them  had  I  spent  in  prison  cells,  and  Kamala  in  hospitals  and  sana 
toria?  And  now  again  I  was  serving  a  prison  sentence  and  out  just  for 
a  few  days,  and  she  was  lying  ill,  struggling  for  life.  I  felt  a  little  irri 
tated  at  her  for  her  carelessness  about  her  health.  And  yet  how  could 
I  blame  her,  for  her  eager  spirit  fretted  at  her  inaction  and  her  inability 
to  take  her  full  share  in  the  national  struggle?  Physically  unable  to  do 
so,  she  could  neither  take  to  work  properly  nor  to  treatment,  and  the 
fire  inside  her  wore  down  the  body. 

Surely  she  was  not  going  to  leave  me  now  when  I  needed  her  most? 
Why,  we  had  just  begun  to  know  and  understand  each  other,  really; 
our  joint  life  was  only  now  properly  beginning.  We  relied  so  much  on 
each  other;  we  had  so  much  to  do  together. 

So  I  thought  as  I  watched  her  from  day  to  day  and  hour  to  hour. 

Colleagues  and  friends  came  to  see  me.  They  told  me  of  much  that 
had  happened  of  which  I  was  unaware.  They  discussed  current  politi 
cal  problems  and  asked  me  questions.  I  found  it  difficult  to  answer 
them.  It  was  not  easy  for  my  mind  to  get  away  from  Kamala's  illness, 
and  after  the  isolation  and  detachment  of  jail  I  was  not  in  a  position 
to  face  concrete  questions  suddenly.  Long  experience  had  taught  me 
that  it  is  not  possible  to  appraise  a  situation  from  the  limited  informa 
tion  available  in  jail.  Personal  contacts  were  necessary  for  a  proper 
mental  reaction,  otherwise  the  expression  of  opinion  was  likely  to  be 
purely  academic  and  divorced  from  reality.  It  seemed  also  unfair  to 
Gandhiji  and  my  old  colleagues  of  the  Congress  Working  Committee 
for  me  to  say  anything  definite  regarding  Congress  policy  before  I  had 
had  the  opportunity  to  discuss  everything  with  them.  My  mind  was 
full  of  criticisms  of  much  that  had  been  done,  but  I  was  not  prepared 
to  make  any  positive  suggestions.  Not  expecting  to  come  out  of  prison 
just  then,  I  had  not  thought  along  these  lines. 

I  had  also  a  feeling  that,  in  view  of  the  courtesy  shown  by  the  Gov 
ernment  in  allowing  me  to  come  to  my  wife,  it  would  not  be  proper 
for  me  to  take  advantage  of  this  for  political  purposes.  I  had  given  no 

334 


undertaking  or  assurance  to  avoid  any  such  activity;  nevertheless  I  was 
continually  being  pulled  back  by  this  idea. 

I  avoided  issuing  any  public  statements  except  to  contradict  false 
rumors.  Even  in  private  I  refrained  from  committing  myself  to  any 
definite  line  of  policy,  but  I  was  free  enough  with  my  criticisms  of 
past  events.  The  Congress  Socialist  party  had  recently  come  into 
existence,  and  many  of  my  intimate  colleagues  were  associated  with  it. 
So  far  as  I  had  gathered,  its  general  policy  was  agreeable  to  me,  but  it 
seemed  a  curious  and  mixed  assemblage,  and,  even  if  I  had  been 
completely  free,  I  would  not  have  suddenly  joined  it.  Local  politics 
took  up  some  of  my  time,  for  in  Allahabad,  as  in  several  other  places, 
there  had  been  an  extraordinarily  virulent  campaign  during  the  elec 
tions  for  the  local  Congress  committees.  No  principles  were  involved 
— it  was  purely  a  question  of  personalities — and  I  was  asked  to  help  in 
settling  some  of  the  personal  quarrels  that  had  arisen. 

I  felt  disgusted  with  the  local  squabble  and  the  kind  of  politics  which 
were  rapidly  developing.  I  felt  out  of  tune  with  them  and  a  stranger 
in  my  own  city  of  Allahabad.  What  could  I  do,  I  wondered,  in  this 
environment  when  the  time  came  for  me  to  attend  to  such  matters? 

I  wrote  to  Gandhiji  about  Kamala's  condition.  As  I  thought  I  would 
be  going  back  to  prison  soon  and  might  have  no  other  chance  to  do 
so,  I  gave  him  also  some  glimpse  into  my  rnind.  Recent  events  had 
embittered  and  distressed  me  greatly,  and  my  letter  carried  a  faint 
reflection  of  this.  I  did  not  attempt  to  suggest  what  should  be  done  or 
what  should  not  be  done;  all  I  did  was  to  interpret  some  of  my  reac 
tions  to  what  had  happened.  It  was  a  letter  full  of  barely  suppressed 
emotions,  and  I  learned  subsequently  that  it  pained  Gandhiji  con 
siderably.  ' 

Day  after  day  went  by,  and  I  waited  for  the  summons  to  prison  or 
some  other  intimation  from  Government.  From  time  to  time  I  was 
informed  that  further  directions  would  be  issued  the  next  day  or  the 
day  after.  Meanwhile  the  doctors  were  asked  to  send  a  daily  bulletin 
of  my  wife's  condition  to  the  Government.  Kamala  had  slightly  im 
proved  since  my  arrival. 

It  was  generally  believed,  even  by  those  who  are  usually  in  the  con 
fidence  of  the  Government,  that  I  would  have  been  fully  discharged 
but  for  two  impending  events— the  fall  session  of  the  Congress  that 
was  taking  place  in  October  in  Bombay  and  the  Assembly  elections  in 
November.  Out  of  prison  I  might  be  a  disturbing  factor  at  these,  and 
so  it  seemed  probable  that  I  might  be  sent  back  to  prison  for  another 

335 


three  months  and  then  discharged.  There  was  also  the  possibility  of 
my  not  being  sent  back  to  jail,  and  this  possibility  seemed  to  grow  as 
the  days  went  by.  I  almost  decided  to  settle  down. 

It  was  the  eleventh  day  after  my  release,  August  23.  The  police  car 
drove  up,  and  the  police  officer  came  up  to  me  and  told  me  that  my 
time  was  up  and  I  had  to  accompany  him  to  Naini  Prison.  I  bade 
good-by  to  my  people.  As  I  was  getting  into  the  police  car,  my  ailing 
mother  ran  up  again  to  me  with  arms  outstretched.  That  face  of  hers 
haunted  me  for  long. 


L 

BACK  TO  PRISON 

Shadow  is  itself  unrestrained  in  its  path  while  sunshine f  as  an  incident  of 
its  very  nature,  is  pursued  a  hundredfold  by  nuance.  Thus  is  sorrow  from 
happiness  a  thing  apart;  the  scope  of  happiness,  however,  is  hampered  by 
the  aches  and  hurts  of  endless  sorrows. 

— RAJATARANGINI.1 

I  WAS  BACK  again  in  Naini  Prison,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  were  starting  a 
fresh  term  of  imprisonment.  In  and  out,  out  and  in;  what  a  shuttlecock 
I  had  become!  This  switching  on  and  off  shook  up  the  whole  system 
emotionally  and  it  was  not  easy  to  adjust  oneself  to  repeated  changes. 
I  had  expected  to  be  put  in  my  old  cell  at  Naini,  to  which  a  previous 
long  stay  had  accustomed  me.  There  were  some  flowers  there,  orig 
inally  planted  by  my  brother-in-law,  Ranjit  Pandit,  and  a  good 
veranda.  But  this  old  Barrack  No.  6  was  occupied  by  a  detenu,  a  State 
prisoner,  kept  confined  without  trial, or  conviction.  It  was  not  consid 
ered  desirable  for  me  to  associate  with  him,  and  I  was  therefore  placed 
in  another  part  of  the  jail  which  was  much  more  closed  in  and  was 
devoid  of  flowers  or  greenery. 

But  the  place  where  I  spent  my  days  and  nights  mattered  little,  for 
my  mind  was  elsewhere.  I  feared  that  the  little  improvement  that  had 
taken  place  in  Kamala's  condition  would  not  stand  the  shock  of  my 
rearrest.  And  so  it  happened.  For  some  days  it  was  arranged  to  supply 
me  in  prison  with  a  very  brief  doctor's  bulletin  daily.  This  came  by  a 
devious  route.  The  doctor  had  to  telephone  it  to  the  police  headquar 
ters,  and  the  latter  then  sent  it  on  to  the  prison.  It  was  not  considered 

aR.  S.  Pandit's  translation.  ("River  of  Kings."  Taranga,  viii  verse,  1913.) 

336 


desirable  to  have  any  direct  contacts  between  the  doctors  and  the  jail 
staff.  For  two  weeks  these  bulletins  came  to  me,  sometimes  rather 
irregularly,  and  then  they  were  stopped  although  there  was  a  pro 
gressive  deterioration  in  Kamala's  condition. 

Bad  news  and  the  waiting  for  news  made  the  days  intolerably  long, 
and  the  nights  were  sometimes  worse.  Time  seemed  almost  to  stand 
still  or  to  move  with  desperate  slowness,  and  every  hour  was  a  burden 
and  a  horror.  I  had  never  before  had  this  feeling  in  this  acute  degree. 
I  thought  then  that  I  was  likely  to  be  released  within  two  months  or 
so,  after  the  Bombay  Congress  session,  but  those  two  months  seemed 
an  eternity.  ' 

Exactly  a  month  after  my  rearrest  a  police  officer  took  me  from 
prison  on  a  brief  visit  to  my  wife.  I  was  told  that  I  would  be  allowed 
to  visit  her  in  this  way  twice  a  week,  and  even  the  time  for  it  was 
fixed.  I  waited  on  the  fourth  day — no  one  came  for  me;  and  on  the 
fifth,  sixth,  seventh.  I  became  weary  of  waiting.  News  reached  me  that 
her  condition  was  becoming  critical  again.  What  a  joke  it  was,  I 
thought,  to  tell  me  that  I  would  be  taken  to  see  her  twice  a  week! 

At  last  the  month  of  September  was  over.  They  were  the  longest 
and  most  damnable  thirty  days  that  I  had  ever  experienced. 

Suggestions  were  made  to  me  through  various  intermediaries  that  if 
I  could  give  an  assurance,  even  an  informal  assurance,  to  keep  away 
from  politics  for  the  rest  of  my  term  I  would  be  released  to  attend  on 
Kamala.  Politics  were  far  enough  from  my  thoughts  just  then,  and 
the  politics  I  had  seen  during  my  eleven  days  outside  had  disgusted 
me,  but  to  give  an  assurance!  And  to  be  disloyal  to  my  pledges,  to  the 
cause,  to  my  colleagues,  to  myself!  It  was  an  impossible  condition, 
whatever  happened.  To  do  so  meant  inflicting  a  mortal  injury  on  the 
roots  of  my  being,  on  almost  everything  I  held  sacred.  I  was  told  that 
Kamala's  condition  was  becoming  worse  and  worse,  and  my  presence 
by  her  side  might  make  all  the  difference  between  life  and  death.  Was 
my  personal  conceit  and  pride  greater  than  my  desire  to  give  her  this 
chance?  It  might  have  been  a  terrible  predicament  for  me,  but  fortu 
nately  that  dilemma  did  not  face  me  in  that  way  at  least.  I  knew  that 
Kamala  herself  would  strongly  disapprove  of  my  giving  any  undertak 
ing,  and,  if  I  did  anything  of  the  kind,  it  would  shock  her  and  harm 
her. 

Early  in  October  I  was  taken  to  see  her  again.  She  was  lying  almost 
in  a  daze  with  a  high  temperature.  She  longed  to  have  me  by  her,  but, 
as  I  was  leaving  her,  to  go  back  to  prison,  she  smiled  at  me  bravely 

337 


and  beckoned  to  me  to  bend  down.  When  I  did  so,  she  whispered: 
"What  is  this  about  your  giving  an  assurance  to  Government?  Do  not 
give  it!" 

During  the  eleven  days  I  was  out  of  prison  it  had  been  decided  to 
send  Kamala,  as  soon  as  she  was  a  little  better,  to  a  more  suitable  place 
for  treatment.  Ever  since  then  we  had  waited  for  her  to  get  better,  but 
instead  she  had  gone  downhill,  and  now,  six  weeks  later,  the  change 
for  the  worse  was  very  marked.  It  was  futile  to  continue  waiting  and 
watching  this  process  of  deterioration,  and  it  was  decided  to  send  her 
to  Bhowali  in  the  hills  even  in  her  present  condition. 

The  day  before  she  was  to  leave  for  Bhowali  I  was  taken  from 
prison  to  bid  her  good-by.  When  will  I  see  her  again?  I  wondered. 
And  will  I  see  her  at  all?  But  she  looked  bright  and  cheerful  that  day, 
and  I  felt  happier  than  I  had  done  for  long. 

Nearly  three  weeks  later  I  was  transferred  from  Naini  Prison  to 
Almora  District  Jail  so  as  to  be  nearer  to  Kamala.  Bhowali  was  on 
the  way,  and  my  police  escort  and  I  spent  a  few  hours  there.  I  was 
greatly  pleased  to  note  the  improvement  in  Kamala,  and  I  left  her,  to 
continue  my  journey  to  Almora,  with  a  light  heart.  Indeed,  even  before 
I  reached  her,  the  mountains  had  filled  me  with  joy. 

I  was  glad  to  be  back  in  these  mountains,  and,  as  our  car  sped 
along  the  winding  road,  the  cold  morning  air  and  the  unfolding 
panorama  brought  a  sense  of  exhilaration.  Higher  and  higher  we 
went;  the  gorges  deepened;  the  peaks  lost  themselves  in  the  clouds; 
the  vegetation  changed  till  the  firs  and  pines  covered  the  hillsides. 
A  turn  of  the  road  would  bring  to  our  eyes  suddenly  a  new  expanse 
of  hills  and  valleys  with  a  little  river  gurgling  in  the  depths  below.  I 
could  not  have  my  fill  of  the  sight,  and  I  looked  on  hungrily,  storing 
my  memory  with  it,  so  that  I  might  revive  it  in  my  mind  when  actual 
sight  was  denied. 

Clusters  of  little  mountain  huts  clung  to  the  hillsides,  and  round 
about  them  were  tiny  fields  made  by  prodigious  labor  on  every  possi 
ble  bit  of  slope.  They  looked  like  terraces  from  a  distance,  huge  steps 
which  sometimes  went  from  the  valley  below  right  up  almost  to  the 
mountain  top.  What  enormous  labor  had  gone  to  make  nature  yield  a 
little  food  to  the  sparse  population!  How  they  toiled  unceasingly,  only 
to  get  barely  enough  for  their  needs!  Those  plowed  terraces  gave  a 
domesticated  look  to  the  hillsides,  and  they  contrasted  strangely  with 
the  bleaker  or  the  more  wooded  slopes, 
It  was  very  pleasant  in  the  daytime,  and,  as  the  sun  rose  higher,  the 

338 


growing  warmth  brought  life  to  the  mountains,  and  they  seemed  to 
lose  their  remoteness  and  become  friendly  and  companionable.  But 
how  they  change  their  aspect  with  the  passing  of  day!  How  cold  and 
grim  they  become  when  "Night  with  giant  strides  stalks  o'er  the 
world"  and  life  hides  and  protects  itself  and  leaves  wild  nature  to  its 
own!  In  the  semidarkness  of  the  moonlight  or  starlight  the  mountains 
loom  up  mysterious,  threatening,  overwhelming,  and  yet  almost  insub 
stantial,  and  through  the  valleys  can  be  heard  the  moaning  of  the 
wind.  The  poor  traveler  shivers  as  he  goes  his  lonely  way  and  senses 
hostility  everywhere.  Even  the  voice  of  the  wind  seems  to  mock  him 
and  challenge  him.  And  at  other  times  there  is  no  breath  of  wind  or 
other  sound,  and  there  is  an  absolute  silence  that  is  oppressive  in  its 
intensity.  Only  the  telegraph  wires  perhaps  hum  faintly,  and  the  stars 
seem  brighter  and  nearer  than  ever.  The  mountains  look  down  grimly, 
and  one  seems  to  be  face  to  face  with  a  mystery  that  terrifies.  With 
Pascal  one  thinks:  "Le  silence  eternel  de  ces  espaces  infinis  m'effraie!' 
In  the  plains  the  nights  are  never  quite  so  soundless;  life  is  still  audible 
there,  and  the  murmuring  and  humming  of  various  animals  and  in 
sects  break  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

But  the  night  with  its  chill  and  inhospitable  message  was  yet  distant 
as  we  motored  along  to  Almora.  As  we  neared  the  end  of  our  journey, 
a  turn  in  the  road  and  a  sudden  lifting  of  the  clouds  brought  a  new 
sight  which  I  saw  with  a  gasp  of  surprised  delight.  The  snowy  peaks 
of  the  Himalayas  stood  glistening  in  the  far  distance,  high  above  the 
wooded  mountains  that  intervened.  Calm  and  inscrutable  they  seemed, 
with  all  the  wisdom  of  past  ages,  mighty  sentinels  over  the  vast  Indian 
plain.  The  very  sight  of  them  cooled  the  fever  in  the  brain,  and  the 
petty  conflicts  and  intrigues,  the  lusts  and  falsehoods  of  the  plains  and 
the  cities  seemed  trivial  and  far  away  before  their  eternal  ways. 

The  little  jail  of  Almora  was  perched  up  on  a  ridge.  I  was  given  a 
lordly  barrack  to  live  in.  This  consisted  of  one  huge  hall,  fifty-one  feet 
by  seventeen,  with  a  fytcha,  very  uneven  floor,  and  a  worm-eaten  roof 
which  was  continually  coming  down  in  little  bits.  There  were  fifteen 
windows  and  a  door,  or  rather  there  were  so  many  barred  openings  in 
the  walls,  for  there  were  no  doors  or  windows.  There  was  thus  no  lack 
of  fresh  air.  As  it  grew  colder  some  of  the  window  openings  were 
covered  with  coir  matting.  In  this  vast  expanse  (which  was  bigger 
than  any  yard  at  Dehra  Dun)  I  lived  in  solitary  grandeur.  But  I  was 
not  quite  alone,  for  at  least  two  score  sparrows  had  made  their  home 
in  the  broken-down  roof.  Sometimes  a  wandering  cloud  would  visit 

339 


me,  its  many  arms  creeping  in  through  the  numerous  openings  and 
filling  the  place  with  a  damp  mist. 

Here  I  was  locked  up  every  evening  at  about  five,  after  I  had  taken 
my  last  meal,  a  kind  of  high  tea,  at  four-thirty;  and  at  seven  in  the 
morning  my  barred  door  would  be  unlocked.  In  the  daytime  I  would 
sit  either  in  my  barrack  or  outside  in  an  adjoining  yard,  warming 
myself  in  the  sun.  I  could  just  see  over  the  enclosing  walls  the  top  of  a 
mountain  a  mile  or  so  away,  and  above  me  I  had  a  vast  expanse  of 
blue  sky  dotted  with  clouds.  Wonderful  shapes  these  clouds  assumed, 
and  I  never  grew  tired  of  watching  them.  I  fancied  I  saw  them  take 
the  shape  of  all  manner  of  animals,  and  sometimes  they  would  join 
together  and  look  like  a  mighty  ocean.  Or  they  would  be  like  a  beach, 
and  the  rustling  of  the  breeze  through  the  deodars  would  sound  like 
the  coming  in  of  the  tide  on  a  distant  sea  front.  Sometimes  a  cloud 
would  advance  boldly  on  us,  seemingly  solid  and  compact,  and  then 
dissolve  in  mist  as  it  came  near  and  finally  enveloped  us. 

I  preferred  the  wide  expanse  of  my  barrack  to  a  narrow  cell,  though 
it  was  lonelier  than  a  smaller  place  would  have  been.  Even  when  it 
rained  outside,  I  could  walk  about  in  it.  But,  as  it  grew  colder,  its 
cheerlessness  became  more  marked,  and  my  love  for  fresh  air  and  the 
open  abated  when  the  temperature  hovered  about  the  freezing  point. 
The  new  year  brought  a  good  fall  of  snow  to  my  delight,  and  even 
the  drab  surroundings  of  prison  became  beautiful.  Especially  beautiful 
and  fairy  like  were  the  deodar  trees  just  outside  the  jail  walls  with 
their  garment  of  snow. 

I  was  worried  by  the  ups  and  downs  of  Kamala's  condition,  and  a 
piece  of  bad  news  would  upset  me  for  a  while,  but  the  hill  air  calmed 
me  and  soothed  me,  and  I  reverted  to  my  habit  of  sleeping  soundly. 
As  I  was  on  the  verge  of  sleep,  I  often  thought  what  a  wonderful  and 
mysterious  thing  was  sleep.  Why  should  one  wake  up  from  it?  Sup 
pose  I  did  not  wake  at  all? 

Yet  the  desire  to  be  out  of  jail  was  strong  in  me,  more  than  I  had 
ever  felt  before.  The  Bombay  Congress  was  over,  and  November  came 
and  went  by,  and  the  excitement  of  the  Assembly  elections  also  passed 
away.  I  half  expected  that  I  might  be  released  soon. 

But  then  came  the  surprising  news  of  the  arrest  and  conviction  of 
Khan  Abdul  Chafer  Khan  and  the  amazing  orders  passed  on  Subhas 
Bose  during  his  brief  visit  to  India.  These  orders  in  themselves  were 
devoid  of  all  humanity  and  consideration;  they  were  applied  to  one 
who  was  held  in  affection  and  esteem  by  vast  numbers  of  his  country- 

34° 


men,  and  who  had  hastened  home,  in  spite  of  his  own  illness,  to  the 
deathbed  of  his  father— to  arrive  too  late.  If  that  was  the  outlook  of  the 
Government,  there  could  be  no  chance  of  my  premature  release.  Offi 
cial  announcements  later  made  this  perfectly  clear. 

After  I  had  been  a  month  in  Almora  jail  I  was  taken  to  Bhowali 
to  see  Kamala.  Since  then  I  have  visited  her  approximately  every 
third  week.  Sir  Samuel  Hoare,  the  Secretary  of  State  for  India,  has 
repeatedly  stated  that  I  am  allowed  to  visit  my  wife  once  or  twice  a 
week.  He  would  have  been  more  correct  if  he  had  said  once  or  twice  a 
month.  During  the  last  three  and  a  half  months  that  I  have  been  at 
Almora  I  have  paid  five  visits  to  her.  I  do  not  mention  this  as  a  griev 
ance,  because  I  think  that  in  this  matter  the  Government  have  been 
very  considerate  to  me  and  have  given  me  quite  unusual  facilities  to 
visit  Kamala.  I  am  grateful  to  them  for  this.  The  brief  visits  I  have 
paid  her  have  been  very  precious  to  me  and  perhaps  to  her  also.  The 
doctors  suspended  their  regime  for  the  day  of  my  visit  to  some  extent, 
and  I  was  permitted  to  have  fairly  long  talks  with  her.  We  came  ever 
nearer  to  each  other,  and  to  leave  her  was  a  wrench.  We  met  only  to 
be  parted.  And  sometimes  I  thought  with  anguish  that  a  day  might 
come  when  the  parting  was  for  good. 

My  mother  had  gone  to  Bombay  for  treatment,  for  she  had  not 
recovered  from  her  ailment.  She  seemed  to  be  progressing.  One  morn 
ing  in  mid-January  a  telegram  brought  a  wholly  unexpected  shock. 
She  had  had  a  stroke  of  paralysis.  There  was  a  possibility  of  my  being 
transferred  to  a  Bombay  prison  to  enable  me  to  see  her,  but,  as  there 
was  a  little  improvement  in  her  condition,  I  was  not  sent. 

January  gave  place  to  February,  and  there  was  the  whisper  of  spring 
in  the  air.  The  bulbul  and  other  birds  were  again  to  be  seen  and  heard, 
and  tiny  shoots  were  mysteriously  bursting  out  of  the  ground  and 
gazing  at  this  strange  world.  Rhododendrons  made  blood-red  patches 
on  the  hillsides,  and  peach  and  plum  blossoms  were  peeping  out.  The 
days  passed  and  I  counted  them  as  they  passed,  thinking  of  my  next 
visit  to  Bhowali.  I  wondered  what  truth  there  is  in  the  saying  that 
life's  rich  gifts  follow  frustration  and  cruelty  and  separation.  Perhaps 
the  gifts  would  not  be  appreciated  otherwise.  Perhaps  suffering  is  nec 
essary  for  clear  thought,  but  excess  of  it  may  cloud  the  brain.  Jail 
encourages  introspection,  and  my  long  years  in  prison  have  forced  me 
to  look  more  and  more  within  myself.  I  am  not  by  nature  an  introvert, 
but  prison  life,  like  strong  coffee  or  strychnine,  leads  to  introversion. 
Sometimes,  to  amuse  myself,  I  drew  an  outline  of  Professor  McDoug- 

341 


all's  cube  for  the  measurement  of  introversion  and  extroversion,  and  I 
gazed  at  it  to  find  out  how  frequent  were  the  changes  from  one  inter 
pretation  to  another.  They  seemed  to  be  rapid. 


LI 

REFLECTIONS  ON  SOCIAL  CHANGE 

Dawn  reddens  in  the  wa\e  of  night,  but  the  days  of  our  life  return  not. 
The  eye  contains  a  far  horizon ,  but  the  wound  of  spring  lies  deep  in  the 
heart. 

— Li  T'Ai-Po. 

I  FOLLOWED  FROM  the  newspapers  supplied  to  me  the  proceedings  of 
the  Bombay  session  of  the  Congress.  The  two  outstanding  features  of 
this,  as  far  as  I  could  make  out  from  my  distant  and  secluded  abode 
on  the  mountains,  were:  the  dominant  personality  of  Gandhiji  and 
the  exceedingly  poor  show  that  the  communal  opposition  under  Pandit 
Madan  Mohan  Malaviya  and  Mr.  Aney  put  up. 

Gandhiji's  retirement  from  the  Congress  was  a  striking  feature  of 
the  session,  and  outwardly  it  marked  the  end  of  a  great  chapter  in 
Congress  and  Indian  history.  But,  essentially,  its  significance  was  not 
great,  for  he  cannot  rid  himself,  even  if  he  wanted  to,  of  his  dominat 
ing  position. 

I  was  glad  that  the  Congress  had  adopted  the  idea  of  a  Constituent 
Assembly  for  setding  the  constitution  of  the  country.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  there  was  no  other  way  of  solving  the  problem,  and  I  am  sure 
that  sometime  or  other  some  such  assembly  will  have  to  meet.  Mani 
festly  it  cannot  do  so  without  the  consent  of  the  British  Government, 
unless  there  has  been  a  successful  revolution.  It  is  equally  manifest 
that  this  consent  is  not  likely  to  be  forthcoming  under  present  circum 
stances.  A  real  assembly  can  therefore  not  meet  till  enough  strength 
has  been  evolved  in  the  country  to  force  the  pace.  This  inevitably 
means  that  even  the  political  problem  will  remain  unsolved  till  then. 

It  was  interesting  to  watch  the  reactions  of  Simla  and  London  to  this 
idea.  It  was  made  known  semiofficially  that  Government  would  have 
no  objection;  they  gave  it  a  patronizing  approval,  evidently  looking 
upon  it  as  an  old  type  of  All-Parties  Conference,  foredoomed  to  failure, 
which  would  strengthen  their  hands.  Later  they  seem  to  have  realized 

342 


the  dangers  and  possibilities  of  the  idea,  and  they  began  opposing  it 
vigorously. 

Soon  after  the  Bombay  Congress  came  the  Assembly  elections.  With 
all  my  lack  of  enthusiasm  for  the  Congress  parliamentary  program, 
I  was  greatly  interested,  and  I  wished  the  Congress  candidates  success, 
or  to  put  it  more  correctly,  I  hoped  for  the  defeat  of  their  opponents. 
Among  these  opponents  was  a  curious  assortment  of  careerists,  com- 
munalists,  renegades,  and  people  who  had  stanchly  supported  the 
Government  in  its  policy  of  repression.  The  Congress  met  with  re 
markable  success,  and  I  was  pleased  that  a  good  number  of  undesirables 
had  been  kept  out. 

The  Assembly  elections  threw  a  revealing  light  on  the  people  at  the 
back  of  the  two  most  reactionary  communal  bodies.  Industrial  advance 
and  profits  are  their  governing  motives. 

Soon  after  the  Assembly  elections  the  Report  of  the  Joint  Parliamen 
tary  Committee  on  Indian  Constitutional  Reform  was  issued.  Among 
the  varied  and  widespread  criticisms  to  which  it  was  subjected,  stress 
was  often  laid  on  the  fact  that  it  showed  "distrust"  and  "suspicion"  of 
the  Indian  people.  This  seemed  to  me  a  very  strange  way  of  looking 
at  our  national  and  social  problems.  Were  there  no  vital  conflicts  of 
interest  between  British  imperial  policy  and  our  national  interests? 
The  question  was  which  was  to  prevail.  Did  we  want  freedom 
merely  to  continue  that  imperial  policy?  Apparendy  that  was  the 
British  Government's  notion,  for  we  were  informed  that  the  "safe 
guards"  would  not  be  used  so  long  as  we  behaved  and  demonstrated 
our  fitness  for  self-rule  by  doing  just  what  British  policy  required.  If 
British  policy  was  to  be  continued  in  India,  why  all  this  shouting 
about  getting  the  reins  in  our  own  hands? 

The  measure  of  liberty  that  this  proposed  gift  of  Britain  offers  to 
India  can  be  taken  from  the  fact  that  even  the  most  moderate  and 
politically  backward  groups  in  India  have  condemned  it  as  reactionary. 
The  habitual  and  persistent  supporters  of  Government  have  had  to 
combine  criticisms  of  it  with  their  usual  genuflections.  Others  have 
been  more  vehement. 

In  view  of  these  proposals  the  Liberals  found  it  difficult  to  retain  in 
full  measure  their  abiding  faith  in  the  inscrutable  wisdom  of  Provi 
dence  in  placing  India  under  British  dominion. 

A  certain  hopeful  reliance  is  placed  by  Liberal  leaders,  and  probably 
by  many  others  including  some  Congressmen,  on  the  victory  of  the 
Labour  party  in  Britain  and  the  formation  of  a  Labour  Government 

343 


there.  There  is  absolutely  no  reason  why  India  should  not  endeavor  to 
go  ahead  with  the  co-operation  of  advanced  groups  in  Britain,  or 
should  not  try  to  profit  by  the  advent  of  a  Labour  Government.  But  to 
rely  helplessly  on  a  change  in  fortune's  wheel  in  England  is  hardly 
dignified  or  in  consonance  with  national  honor.  Dignity  apart,  it  is 
not  good  common  sense.  Why  should  we  expect  much  from  the 
British  Labour  party?  We  have  had  two  Labour  Governments  already, 
and  we  are  not  likely  to  forget  their  gifts  to  India.  At  the  South- 
port  Conference  in  1934,  a  resolution  was  submitted  by  Mr.  V.  K. 
Krishna  Menon  "expressing  the  conviction  that  it  is  imperative  that 
the  principle  of  self-determination  for  the  establishment  of  full  self- 
government  for  India  should  be  implemented  forthwith."  Mr.  Arthur 
Henderson  urged  the  withdrawal  of  the  resolution  and,  very  frankly, 
refused  to  give  an  undertaking  on  behalf  of  the  Executive  to  carry  out 
its  policy  of  self-determination  for  India.  He  said:  "We  have  laid  down 
very  clearly  that  we  are  going  to  consult  if  possible  all  sections  of  the 
Indian  people.  That  ought  to  satisfy  anybody."  The  satisfaction  will 
perhaps  be  tempered  by  the  fact  that  exactly  this  was  the  declared  pol 
icy  of  the  last  Labour  Government  and  the  National  Government, 
resulting  in  the  Round  Table  Conference,  the  White  Paper,  the  Joint 
Committee  Report,  and  the  India  Act. 

It  is  perfectly  clear  that  in  matters  of  imperial  policy  there  is  little 
to  choose  between  Tory  or  Labour  in  England.  It  is  true  that  the 
Labour  rank  and  file  is  far  more  advanced,  but  it  has  little  influence 
on  its  very  conservative  leadership.  It  may  be  that  the  Labour  Left 
wing  will  gather  strength,  for  conditions  change  rapidly  nowadays;  but 
do  national  or  social  movements  curl  themselves  up  and  go  to  sleep, 
waiting  for  problematical  changes  elsewhere? 

One  of  the  notable  consequences  of  the  Round  Table  Conference 
and  the  proposal  to  have  a  federation,  is  to  push  the  Indian  princes 
very  much  to  the  forefront.  The  solicitude  of  the  Tory  die-hards  for 
them  and  their  "independence"  has  put  new  life  into  them.  Never 
before  have  they  had  so  much  importance  thrust  on  them.  Previously 
they  had  dared  not  say  no  to  a  hint  from  the  British  Resident,  and 
the  Government  of  India's  attitude  to  the  numerous  highnesses  was 
openly  disdainful.  There  was  continual  interference  in  their  internal 
affairs,  and  often  this  was  justified.  Even  today  a  large  number  of  the 
states  are  directly  or  indirectly  being  governed  by  British  officers  "lent" 
to  the  states.  But  Mr.  Churchill's  and  Lord  Rothermere's  campaign 
seems  to  have  unnerved  the  Government  of  India  a  little,  and  it  has 

344 


grown  cautious  about  interfering  with  their  decisions.  The  princes  also 
now  talk  in  a  much  more  superior  way. 

I  have  tried  to  follow  these  superficial  developments  in  the  Indian 
political  scene,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  they  are  unreal,  and  the 
background  in  India  oppresses  me.  The  background  is  one  of  continual 
repression  of  every  kind  of  freedom,  of  enormous  suffering  and  frus 
tration,  of  distortion  of  good  will,  and  encouragement  of  many  evil 
tendencies.  Large  numbers  lie  in  prison  and  spend  their  young  lives, 
year  after  year,  eating  their  hearts  out.  Their  families  and  friends  and 
connections  and  thousands  of  others  grow  bitter,  and  a  nauseating 
sense  of  humiliation  and  powerlessness  before  brute  strength  takes  pos 
session  of  them.  Numerous  organizations  are  outlawed  even  in  normal 
times,  while  "Emergency  Powers"  and  "Tranquillity  Acts"  make  for 
themselves  almost  a  permanent  home  in  the  Government's  armory. 
Exceptions  in  the  matter  of  restrictions  of  liberties  rapidly  become  the 
general  rule.  Large  numbers  of  books  and  periodicals  are  proscribed 
or  prevented  entry  by  a  "Sea  Customs  Act,"  and  the  possession  of 
"dangerous"  literature  may  lead  to  a  long  term  of  imprisonment.  A 
frank  expression  of  opinion  on  the  political  or  economic  problems  of 
the  day,  or  a  favorable  report  of  social  and  cultural  conditions  in  Rus 
sia  meets  with  the  strong  disapproval  of  the  censor.  The  Modern  Re 
view  was  warned  by  the  Bengal  Government  because  it  published  an 
article  by  Dr.  Rabindranath  Tagore  on  Russia,  an  article  written  after 
a  personal  visit  to  that  country.  We  are  informed  by  the  Under-Secre- 
tary  for  India  in  Parliament  that  "the  article  gave  a  distorted  view 
of  the  achievements  of  British  rule  in  India,"  and  hence  action  was 
taken  against  it.1  The  judge  of  these  achievements  is  the  censor,  and 
we  may  not  have  a  contrary  opinion  or  give  expression  to  it.  Objection 
was  also  taken  by  Government  to  the  publication  of  a  brief  message 
from  Rabindranath  Tagore  to  the  Dublin  Society  of  Friends.  This 
is  a  strange  background  for  the  introduction  of  reforms  and  respon 
sible  government  and  the  like. 

Far-reaching  changes  are  taking  place  before  our  eyes,  and  the  fu 
ture,  whatever  shape  it  might  take,  is  not  a  remote,  far-off  thing  which 
arouses  a  purely  academic  interest  in  the  detached  minds  of  philoso 
phers,  sociologists,  and  economists.  It  is  a  matter  which  affects  every 
human  being  for  better  or  for  worse,  and  surely  it  is  every  citizen's 
duty  to  try  to  understand  the  various  forces  at  play  and  decide  on  his 
own  course  of  action.  A  world  is  coming  to  an  end,  and  a  new  world 

1  November  12,  1934. 

345 


is  taking  shape.  To  find  an  answer  to  a  problem  it  is  necessary  to  know 
what  it  is.  Indeed  it  is  as  important  to  know  the  problem  as  to  seek  a 
solution  for  it. 

Even  more  important  are  the  economic  changes  that  are  rapidly  tak 
ing  place  the  world  over.  We  must  realize  that  the  nineteenth-century 
system  has  passed  away  and  has  no  application  to  present-day  needs. 

We  have  to  face  many  questions,  and  we  must  face  them  boldly. 
Has  the  present  social  or  economic  system  a  right  to  exist  if  it  is  un 
able  to  improve  greatly  the  condition  of  the  masses?  Does  any  other 
system  give  promise  of  this  widespread  betterment?  How  far  will  a 
mere  political  change  bring  radical  improvement?  If  vested  interests 
come  in  the  way  of  an  eminently  desirable  change,  is  it  wise  or  moral 
to  attempt  to  preserve  them  at  the  cost  of  mass  misery  and  poverty? 
Surely  the  object  is  not  to  injure  vested  interests,  but  to  prevent  them 
from  injuring  others.  If  it  was  possible  to  come  to  terms  with  these 
vested  interests,  it  would  be  most  desirable  to  do  so.  People  may  dis 
agree  with  the  justice  or  injustice  of  this,  but  few  will  doubt  the  ex 
pediency  of  a  settlement.  Such  a  settlement  obviously  cannot  be  the 
removal  of  one  vested  interest  by  the  creation  of  another.  Whenever 
possible  and  desirable,  reasonable  compensation  might  be  given,  for  a 
conflict  is  likely  to  cost  far  more.  But,  unhappily,  all  history  shows  that 
vested  interests  do  not  accept  such  compromises.  Classes  that  have 
ceased  to  play  a  vital  part  in  society  are  singularly  lacking  in  wisdom. 
They  gamble  for  all  or  nothing,  and  so  they  fade  away. 

In  considering  a  method  for  changing  the  existing  order  we  have  to 
weigh  the  costs  of  it  in  material  as  well  as  spiritual  terms.  We  cannot 
afford  to  be  too  shortsighted.  We  have  to  see  how  far  it  helps  ulti 
mately  in  the  development  of  human  happiness  and  human  progress, 
material  and  spiritual.  But  we  have  always  to  bear  in  mind  the  ter 
rible  costs  of  not  changing  the  existing  order,  of  carrying  on  as  we  do 
today  with  our  enormous  burden  of  frustrated  and  distorted  lives,  star 
vation  and  misery,  and  spiritual  and  moral  degradation. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  vast  changes  that  socialism  envisages  cannot  be 
brought  about  by  the  sudden  passing  of  a  few  laws.  But  the  basic  laws 
and  power  are  necessary  to  give  the  direction  of  advance  and  to  lay 
the  foundation  of  the  structure.  If  the  great  building-up  of  a  socialized 
society  is  to  proceed,  it  cannot  be  left  to  chance  nor  can  it  be  done  in 
fits  and  starts  with  intervals  of  destruction  of  what  has  been  built.  The 
major  obstructions  have  thus  to  be  removed.  The  object  is  not  to  de 
prive,  but  to  provide;  to  change  the  present  scarcity  to  future  abun- 

346 


dance.  But  in  doing  so  the  path  must  necessarily  be  cleared  of  impedi 
ments  and  selfish  interests  which  want  to  hold  society  back.  And  the 
path  we  take  is  not  merely  a  question  of  what  we  like  or  dislike  or 
even  of  abstract  justice,  but  of  what  is  economically  sound,  capable  of 
progress,  adaptation  to  changing  conditions,  and  likely  to  do  good  to 
the  largest  number  of  human  beings. 

A  clash  of  interests  seems  inevitable.  There  is  no  middle  path.  Each 
one  of  us  will  have  to  choose  his  side.  Before  we  can  choose,  we  must 
know  and  understand.  The  emotional  appeal  of  socialism  is  not 
enough.  This  must  be  supplemented  by  an  intellectual  and  reasoned 
appeal  based  on  facts  and  arguments  and  detailed  criticism.  In  the 
West  a  great  deal  of  this  kind  of  literature  exists,  but  in  India  there  is 
a  tremendous  lack  of  it,  and  many  good  books  are  not  allowed  entry 
here.  But  to  read  books  from  other  countries  is  not  enough.  If  socialism 
is  to  be  built  up  in  India,  it  will  have  to  grow  out  of  Indian  conditions, 
and  the  closest  study  of  these  conditions  is  essential.  We  want  experts 
in  the  job  who  study  and  prepare  detailed  plans.  Unfortunately  our 
experts  are  mostly  in  Government  service  or  in  the  semiofficial  univer 
sities,  and  they  dare  not  go  far  in  this  direction. 

An  intellectual  background  is  not  enough  to  bring  socialism.  Other 
forces  are  necessary.  But  I  do  feel  that  without  that  background  we 
can  never  have  a  grip  of  the  subject  or  create  a  powerful  movement. 
At  the  present  moment  the  agrarian  problem  is  far  the  most  important 
in  India,  and  it  is  likely  to  remain  so.  But  industry  is  of  little  less  im 
portance,  and  it  grows.  What  is  our  objective:  a  peasant  state  or  an 
industrial  one  ?  Of  course  we  are  bound  to  remain  predominantly  agri 
cultural,  but  one  can  and,  I  think,  must  push  industry. 

Our  captains  of  industry  are  quite  amazingly  backward  in  their 
ideas;  they  are  not  even  up-to-date  capitalists.  The  masses  are  so  poor 
that  they  do  not  look  upon  them  as  potential  consumers  and  fight  bit 
terly  against  any  proposal  to  increase  wages  or  lower  hours  of  work. 
The  whole  outlook  of  the  industry  is  an  early  nineteenth-century  one. 
They  make  stupendous  profits  when  they  have  the  chance  and  the 
worker  continues  as  before;  if  there  is  a  slump,  the  owners  complain 
that  they  cannot  carry  on  without  reducing  wages.  Not  only  have  they 
the  help  of  the  State,  but  also  usually  the  sympathy  of  our  middle-class 
politicians.  To  compare  the  magnificent  palaces  of  the  jute  millionaires 
and  the  cotton  lords,  with  their  ostentatious  display  of  pomp  and  lux 
ury,  to  the  wretched  hovels  where  their  seminaked  workers  live,  should 

347 


be  an  education  of  the  most  impressive  kind.  But  we  take  these  con 
trasts  for  granted  and  pass  them  by,  unaffected  and  unimpressed. 

Bad  as  is  the  lot  of  the  Indian  industrial  worker,  it  is,  from  the  in 
come  point  of  view,  far  better  than  the  peasant's  lot.  The  peasant  has 
one  advantage :  he  lives  in  fresh  air  and  escapes  the  degradation  of  the 
slums.  But  so  low  has  he  sunk  that  he  often  converts  even  his  open-air 
village  into  a  "dung  heap,"  as  Gandhiji  has  called  it.  There  is  no  sense 
of  co-operation  in  him  or  of  joint  effort  for  the  good  of  the  community. 
It  is  easy  to  condemn  him  for  this,  but  what  is  the  unhappy  creature 
to  do  when  life  presents  itself  to  him  as  a  bitter  and  unceasing  indi 
vidual  struggle  with  every  man's  hand  raised  against  him?  How  he 
lives  at  all  is  an  almost  incredible  wonder.  It  has  been  found  that  the 
average  daily  income  of  typical  farmers  in  the  Punjab  was  about  nine 
annas  (roughly  ninepence)  per  head  in  1928-29.  This  fell  in  1930-31  to 
nine  pies  (three  farthings)  per  head!  The  Punjab  peasant  is  considered 
to  be  far  more  prosperous  than  the  peasantry  of  Behar  and  Bengal  in 
the  United  Provinces.  In  some  of  the  eastern  districts  of  the  United 
Provinces  (Gorakhpur,  etc.)  in  prosperous  times  before  the  slump,  the 
daily  field  wage  was  two  annas  (twopence).  To  talk  of  improving 
these  staggering  conditions  by  philanthropy  or  local  efforts  in  rural 
uplift  is  a  mockery  of  the  peasant  and  his  misery. 

How  are  we  to  get  out  of  this  quagmire?  Means  can  no  doubt  be 
devised,  although  it  is  a  difficult  task  to  raise  masses  of  people  who 
have  sunk  so  low.  But  the  real  difficulty  comes  from  interested  groups 
who  oppose  change,  and  under  imperialist  domination  the  change 
seems  to  be  out  of  the  question.  In  what  direction  will  India  look  in 
the  coming  years?  Communism  and  fascism  seem  to  be  the  major 
tendencies  of  the  age,  and  intermediate  tendencies  and  vacillating 
groups  are  gradually  being  eliminated. 

As  between  fascism  and  communism  my  sympathies  are  entirely 
with  communism.  As  these  pages  will  show,  I  am  very  far  from  being 
a  communist.  My  roots  are  still  perhaps  partly  in  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury,  and  I  have  been  too  much  influenced  by  the  humanist  liberal  tra 
dition  to  get  out  of  it  completely.  This  bourgeois  background  follows 
me  about  and  is  naturally  a  source  of  irritation  to  many  communists, 
I  dislike  dogmatism,  and  the  treatment  of  Karl  Marx's  writings  or  any 
other  books  as  revealed  scripture  which  cannot  be  challenged,  and  the 
regimentation  and  heresy  hunts  which  seem  to  be  a  feature  of  modern 
communism.  I  dislike  also  much  that  has  happened  in  Russia,  and 

348 


especially  the  excessive  use  of  violence  in  normal  times.  But  still  I  in 
cline  more  and  more  toward  a  communist  philosophy. 

Marx  may  be  wrong  in  some  of  his  statements,  or  his  theory  of 
value;  this  I  am  not  competent  to  judge.  But  he  seems  to  me  to  have 
possessed  quite  an  extraordinary  degree  of  insight  into  social  phe 
nomena,  and  this  insight  was  apparently  due  to  the  scientific  method 
he  adopted.  This  method,  applied  to  past  history  as  well  as  current 
events,  helps  us  in  understanding  them  far  more  than  any  other 
method  of  approach,  and  it  is  because  of  this  that  the  most  revealing 
and  keen  analyses  of  the  changes  that  are  taking  place  in  the  world 
today  come  from  Marxist  writers.  It  is  easy  to  point  out  that  Marx 
ignored  or  underrated  certain  subsequent  tendencies,  like  the  rise  of  a 
revolutionary  element  in  the  middle  class,  which  is  so  notable  today. 
But  the  whole  value  of  Marxism  seems  to  me  to  lie  in  its  absence  of 
dogmatism,  in  its  stress  on  a  certain  outlook  and  mode  of  approach, 
and  in  its  attitude  to  action.  That  outlook  helps  us  in  understanding 
the  social  phenomena  of  our  own  times  and  points  out  the  way  of 
action  and  escape. 

Even  that  method  of  action  was  no  fixed  and  unchangeable  road 
but  had  to  be  suited  to  circumstances.  That,  at  any  rate,  was  Lenin's 
view,  and  he  justified  it  brilliantly  by  fitting  his  action  to  changing 
circumstances.  He  tells  us:  "To  attempt  to  answer  'yes'  or  'no'  to 
the  question  of  the  definite  means  of  struggle,  without  examining  in 
detail  the  concrete  situation  of  a  given  moment  at  a  given  stage  of  its 
development,  means  to  depart  altogether  from  the  Marxian  ground." 
And  again  he  says:  "Nothing  is  final;  we  must  always  learn  from 
circumstances." 

Because  of  this  wide  and  comprehensive  outlook,  the  really  under 
standing  communist  develops  to  some  extent  an  organic  sense  of  social 
life.  Politics  for  him  cease  to  be  a  mere  record  of  opportunism  or  a 
groping  in  the  dark.  The  ideals  and  objectives  he  works  for  give  a 
meaning  to  the  struggle  and  to  the  sacrifices  he  willingly  faces.  He 
feels  that  he  is  part  of  a  grand  army  marching  forward  to  realize 
human  fate  and  destiny,  and  he  has  the  sense  of  "marching  step  by 
step  with  history." 

Probably  most  communists  are  far  from  feeling  all  this.  Perhaps  only 
a  Lenin  had  this  organic  sense  of  life  in  its  fullness  which  made  his 
action  so  effective.  But  to  a  small  extent  every  communist,  who  has 
understood  the  philosophy  of  his  movement,  has  it. 

It  is  difficult  to  be  patient  with  many  communists;  they  have  devel- 

349 


oped  a  peculiar  method  of  irritating  others.  But  they  are  a  sorely  tried 
people,  and,  outside  the  Soviet  Union,  they  have  to  contend  against 
enormous  difficulties.  I  have  always  admired  their  great  courage  and 
capacity  for  sacrifice.  They  suffer  greatly,  as,  unhappily,  untold  mil 
lions  suffer  in  various  ways,  but  not  blindly  before  a  malign  and  all- 
powerful  fate.  They  suffer  as  human  beings,  and  there  is  a  tragic 
nobility  about  such  suffering. 

The  success  or  failure  of  the  Russian  social  experiments  does  not 
directly  affect  the  validity  of  the  Marxian  theory.  It  is  conceivable, 
though  it  is  highly  unlikely,  that  a  set  of  untoward  circumstances  or 
a  combination  of  powers  might  upset  those  experiments.  But  the  value 
of  those  mighty  social  upheavals  will  still  remain.  With  all  my  in 
stinctive  dislike  for  much  that  has  happened  there,  I  feel  that  they  offer 
the  greatest  hope  to  the  world.  I  do  not  know  enough,  and  I  am  not 
in  a  position  to  judge  their  actions.  My  chief  fear  is  that  the  back 
ground  of  too  much  violence  and  suppression  might  bring  an  evil  trail 
behind  them  which  it  may  be  difficult  to  get  rid  of.  But  the  greatest 
thing  in  favor  of  the  present  directors  of  Russia's  destiny  is  that  they 
are  not  afraid  to  learn  from  their  mistakes.  They  can  retrace  their  steps 
and  build  anew.  And  always  they  keep  their  ideal  before  them.  Their 
activities  in  other  countries,  through  the  Communist  International, 
have  been  singularly  futile,  but  apparently  those  activities  have  been 
reduced  to  a  minimum  now. 

Coming  back  to  India,  communism  and  socialism  seem  a  far  cry, 
unless  the  rush  of  external  events  forces  the  pace  here.  We  have  to 
deal  not  with  communism  but,  with  the  addition  of  an  extra  syllable, 
with  communalism.  And  communally  India  is  in  a  dark  age.  Men  of 
action  waste  their  energies  on  trivial  things  and  intrigue,  and  maneu 
ver  and  try  to  overreach  each  other.  Few  of  them  are  interested  in 
trying  to  make  the  world  a  better,  brighter  place.  Perhaps  this  is  a 
temporary  phase  that  will  pass  soon. 

The  Congress  has  at  least  largely  kept  out  of  this  communal  dark 
ness,  but  its  outlook  is  petty  bourgeois,  and  the  remedy  it  seeks  for 
this  as  for  other  problems  is  in  terms  of  the  petty  bourgeoisie.  It  is 
not  likely  to  succeed  that  way.  It  represents  today  this  lower  middle 
class,  for  that  is  the  most  vocal  and  revolutionary  at  present.  But  it  is 
nevertheless  not  as  vital  as  it  appears  to  be.  It  is  pressed  on  either  side 
by  two  forces — one  entrenched,  the  other  still  weak  but  growing  rap 
idly.  It  is  passing  through  a  crisis  of  its  existence  at  present;  what  will 
happen  to  it  in  the  future  it  is  difficult  to  say.  It  cannot  go  over  to  the 

350 


side  of  the  entrenched  forces  before  it  has  fulfilled  its  historic  mission 
of  attaining  national  freedom.  But,  before  it  succeeds  in  that,  other 
forces  may  grow  powerful  and  influence  it  in  their  direction,  or  grad 
ually  displace  it.  It  seems  likely,  however,  that  so  long  as  a  large 
measure  of  national  freedom  is  not  obtained,  the  Congress  will  play 
a  dominant  role  in  India. 

Any  violent  activity  seems  to  be  out  of  the  question,  injurious,  and 
waste  of  effort.  That,  I  think,  is  generally  recognized  in  India,  in  spite 
of  rare  instances  of  futile  and  sporadic  violence.  That  way  cannot  lead 
us  anywhere  except  into  a  hopeless  maze  of  violence  and  counter- 
violence  out  of  which  it  will  be  difficult  to  emerge. 

I  write  vaguely  and  somewhat  academically  about  current  events  and 
try  to  play  the  part  of  a  detached  onlooker.  I  am  not  usually  consid 
ered  a  looker-on  when  action  beckons;  my  offense,  I  am  often  told,  is 
that  I  rush  in  foolishly  without  sufficient  provocation.  What  would  I 
do  now?  What  would  I  suggest  to  my  countrymen  to  do?  Perhaps  the 
instinctive  caution  of  a  person  who  dabbles  in  public  affairs  comes  in 
the  way  of  my  committing  myself  prematurely.  But,  if  I  may  confess 
the  truth,  I  really  do  not  know,  and  I  do  not  try  to  find  out.  When  I 
cannot  act,  why  should  I  worry  ?  I  do  worry  to  a  large  extent,  but  that 
is  inevitable.  At  least,  so  long  as  I  am  in  prison,  I  try  to  save  myself 
from  coming  to  grips  with  the  problem  of  immediate  action. 

All  activity  seems  to  be  far  away  in  prison.  One  becomes  the  object 
of  events,  not  the  subject  of  action.  And  one  waits  and  waits  for 
something  to  happen.  I  write  of  political  and  social  problems  of  India 
and  the  world,  but  what  are  they  to  this  little  self-contained  world  of 
jail  which  has  long  been  my  home?  Prisoners  have  only  one  major 
interest:  the  date  of  their  release. 


LII 

A  CONCLUSION 

We  are  enjoined  to  labor;  but  it  is  not  granted  to  us  to  complete  our 
labors —The  Talmud. 

I  HAVE  REACHED  the  end  of  the  story.  This  egotistical  narrative  of  my 
adventures  through  life,  such  as  they  are,  has  been  brought  up  to 
today,  February  14,  1935,  District  Jail,  Almora.  Three  months  ago  to 
day  I  celebrated  in  this  prison  my  forty-fifth  birthday,  and  I  suppose 

351 


I  have  still  many  years  to  live.  Sometimes  a  sense  of  age  and  weariness 
steals  over  me;  at  other  times  I  feel  full  of  energy  and  vitality.  I  have 
a  fairly  tough  body,  and  my  mind  has  a  capacity  for  recovering  from 
shock,  so  I  imagine  I  shall  yet  survive  for  long  unless  some  sudden 
fate  overtakes  me.  But  the  future  has  to  be  lived  before  it  can  be 
written  about. 

The  adventures  have  not  been  very  exciting  perhaps;  long  years  in 
prison  can  hardly  be  termed  adventurous.  Nor  have  they  been  in  any 
way  unique,  for  I  have  shared  these  years  with  their  ups  and  downs 
with  tens  of  thousands  of  my  countrymen  and  countrywomen;  and 
this  record  of  changing  moods,  of  exaltations  and  depressions,  of  in 
tense  activity  and  enforced  solitude,  is  our  common  record.  I  have  been 
one  of  a  mass,  moving  with  it,  swaying  it  occasionally,  being  influ 
enced  by  it;  and  yet,  like  the  other  units,  an  individual,  apart  from  the 
others,  living  my  separate  life  in  the  heart  of  the  crowd.  We  have 
posed  often  enough  and  struck  up  attitudes,  but  there  was  something 
very  real  and  intensely  truthful  in  much  that  we  did,  and  this  lifted 
us  out  of  our  petty  selves  and  made  us  more  vital  and  gave  us  an  im 
portance  that  we  would  otherwise  not  have  had.  Sometimes  we  were 
fortunate  enough  to  experience  that  fullness  of  life  which  comes  from 
attempting  to  fit  ideals  with  action.  And  we  realized  that  any  other 
life  involving  a  renunciation  of  these  ideals  and  a  tame  submission  to 
superior  force,  would  have  been  a  wasted  existence,  full  of  discontent 
and  inner  sorrow. 

To  me  these  years  have  brought  one  rich  gift,  among  many  others. 
More  and  more  I  have  looked  upon  life  as  an  adventure  of  absorbing 
interest,  where  there  is  so  much  to  learn,  so  much  to  do.  I  have  con 
tinually  had  a  feeling  of  growing  up,  and  that  feeling  is  still  with  me 
and  gives  a  zest  to  my  activities  as  well  as  to  the  reading  of  books, 
and  generally  makes  life  worth  while. 

In  writing  this  narrative  I  have  tried  to  give  my  moods  and  thoughts 
at  the  time  of  each  event,  to  represent  as  far  as  I  could  my  feelings  on 
the  occasion.  It  is  difficult  to  recapture  a  past  mood,  and  it  is  not  easy 
to  forget  subsequent  happenings.  Later  ideas,  thus,  must  inevitably 
have  colored  my  account  of  earlier  days;  but  my  object  was,  primarily 
for  my  own  benefit,  to  trace  my  own  mental  growth.  Perhaps  what  I 
have  written  is  not  so  much  an  account  of  what  I  have  been  but  of 
what  I  have  sometimes  wanted  to  be  or  imagined  myself  to  be. 

Indeed,  I  often  wonder  if  I  represent  anyone  at  all,  and  I  am  in 
clined  to  think  that  I  do  not,  though  many  have  kindly  and  friendly 

352 


feelings  toward  me.  I  have  become  a  queer  mixture  o£  the  East  and 
the  West,  out  of  place  everywhere,  at  home  nowhere.  Perhaps  my 
thoughts  and  approach  to  life  are  more  akin  to  what  is  called  Western 
than  Eastern,  but  India  clings  to  me,  as  she  does  to  all  her  children, 
in  innumerable  ways;  and  behind  me  lie,  somewhere  in  the  subcon 
scious,  racial  memories  of  a  hundred,  or  whatever  the  number  may  be, 
generations  of  Brahmans.  I  cannot  get  rid  of  either  that  past  inheritance 
or  my  recent  acquisitions.  They  are  both  part  of  me,  and,  though  they 
help  me  in  both  the  East  and  the  West,  they  also  create  in  me  a  feeling 
of  spiritual  loneliness  not  only  in  public  activities  but  in  life  itself.  I 
am  a  stranger  and  alien  in  the  West.  I  cannot  be  of  it.  But  in  my  own 
country  also,  sometimes,  I  have  an  exile's  feeling. 

The  distant  mountains  seem  easy  of  access  and  climbing,  the  top 
beckons,  but,  as  one  approaches,  difficulties  appear;  and  the  higher  one 
goes  the  more  laborious  becomes  the  journey,  and  the  summit  recedes 
into  the  clouds.  Yet  the  climbing  is  worth  the  effort  and  has  its  own 
joy  and  satisfaction.  Perhaps  it  is  the  struggle  that  gives  value  to  life, 
not  so  much  the  ultimate  result.  Often  it  is  difficult  to  know  which 
is  the  right  path;  it  is  easier  sometimes  to  know  what  is  not  right, 
and  to  avoid  that  is  something  after  all.  If  I  may  quote,  with  all  hu 
mility,  the  last  words  of  the  great  Socrates:  "I  know  not  what  death 
is — it  may  be  a  good  thing,  and  I  am  not  afraid  of  it.  But  I  do  know 
that  it  is  a  bad  thing  to  desert  one's  post,  and  I  prefer  what  may  be 
good  to  what  I  know  to  be  bad." 

The  years  I  have  spent  in  prison!  Sitting  alone,  wrapped  in  my 
thoughts,  how  many  seasons  I  have  seen  go  by,  following  one  another 
into  oblivion!  How  many  moons  I  have  watched  wax  and  wane,  and 
the  pageant  of  the  stars  moving  along  inexorably  and  majestically! 
How  many  yesterdays  of  my  youth  lie  buried  here!  Sometimes  I  see 
the  ghosts  of  these  dead  yesterdays  rise  up,  bringing  poignant  mem 
ories,  and  whispering  to  me:  "Was  it  worth  while?"  There  is  no  hesi 
tation  about  the  answer.  If  I  were  given  the  chance  to  go  through  my 
life  again,  with  my  present  knowledge  and  experience  added,  I  would 
no  doubt  try  to  make  many  changes  in  my  personal  life;  I  would  en 
deavor  to  improve  in  many  ways  on  what  I  had  previously  done,  but 
my  major  decisions  in  public  affairs  would  remain  untouched.  Indeed, 
I  could  not  vary  them,  for  they  were  stronger  than  myself,  and  a  force 
beyond  my  control  drove  me  to  them. 

It  is  almost  exactly  a  year  since  my  conviction;  a  year  has  gone  by 
out  of  the  two  years  of  my  sentence.  Another  full  year  remains,  for 

353 


there  are  no  remissions  this  time,  as  simple  imprisonment  carries  no 
such  deductions.  Even  the  eleven  days  that  I  was  out  in  August  last 
have  been  added  on  to  the  period  of  my  sentence.  But  this  year  too 
will  pass,  and  I  shall  go  out — and  then  ?  I  do  not  know,  but  I  have  a 
feeling  that  a  chapter  of  my  life  is  over  and  another  chapter  will  begin. 
What  this  is  going  to  be  I  cannot  clearly  guess.  The  leaves  of  the  book 
of  life  are  closed. 


POSTSCRIPT 

BADENWEILER,  SCHWARZWALD, 
October  25,  7935 

IN  MAY  LAST  my  wife  left  Bhowali  for  further  treatment  in  Europe. 
After  her  departure  there  were  no  more  visits  to  Bhowali  for  me,  no 
more  fortnightly  outings  and  drives  on  the  mountain  roads.  I  missed 
them,  and  Almora  Jail  seemed  to  be  drearier  than  before. 

News  came  of  the  Quetta  earthquake,  and  for  a  while  all  else  was 
forgotten.  But  not  for  long,  for  the  Government  of  India  does  not 
allow  us  to  forget  it  or  its  peculiar  ways.  Soon  we  learned  that  Rajen- 
dra  Prasad,  the  Congress  president,  and  the  man  who  knew  more 
about  earthquake  relief  work  than  almost  any  other  person  in  India, 
was  not  permitted  to  go  to  Quetta  and  help  in  relief.  Nor  could  Gand 
hi  ji  or  any  other  public  man  of  note.  Many  Indian  newspapers  had 
their  securities  confiscated  for  writing  articles  on  Quetta. 

Everywhere  the  military  mentality,  the  police  outlook — in  the  As 
sembly,  in  civil  government,  in  bombing  on  the  Frontier.  Almost  it 
would  seem  that  the  British  Government  in  India  is  permanently  at 
war  with  large  sections  of  the  Indian  people. 

The  police  are  a  useful  and  necessary  force,  but  a  world  full  of  po 
licemen  and  the  police  bludgeon  may  not,  perhaps,  be  a  desirable  place 
to  live  in.  It  has  often  been  said  that  an  unrestrained  use  of  force  de 
grades  the  user  of  it  as  it  humiliates  and  degrades  the  object  of  it.  Few 
things  are  more  striking  today  in  India  than  the  progressive  deteriora 
tion,  moral  and  intellectual,  of  the  higher  services,  more  especially  the 
Indian  Civil  Service.  This  is  most  in  evidence  in  the  superior  officials, 
but  it  runs  like  a  thread  throughout  the  services.  Whenever  occasion 
arises  for  making  a  fresh  appointment  to  the  higher  ranks,  the  person 
who  represents  the  new  spirit  best  is  inevitably  chosen. 

On  September  4  I  was  suddenly  discharged  from  Almora  Jail  as 

354 


news  had  come  that  my  wife's  condition  was  critical.  She  was  under 
treatment  in  Badenweiler  in  the  Schwarzwald  in  Germany.  My  sen 
tence  was  "suspended,"  I  was  told,  and  I  was  released  five  and  a  half 
months  before  my  time.  I  hurried  to  Europe  by  air. 

Europe  in  turmoil,  fearful  of  war  and  tumult  and  with  economic 
crises  always  on  the  horizon;  Abyssinia  invaded  and  her  people 
bombed;  various  imperialist  systems  in  conflict  and  threatening  each 
other;  and  England,  the  greatest  of  the  imperialist  Powers,  standing 
up  for  peace  and  the  League  Covenant  while  it  bombs  and  ruthlessly 
oppresses  its  subject  peoples.  But  here  in  the  Black  Forest  it  is  calm 
and  peaceful,  and  even  the  swastika  is  not  much  in  evidence.  I  watch 
the  mists  steal  up  the  valley  and  hide  the  distant  frontier  of  France 
and  cover  the  landscape,  and  I  wonder  what  lies  behind  them. 


LIII 

FIVE  YEARS  LATER 

FIVE  AND  A  half  years  ago,  sitting  in  my  prison  barrack  in  the  Almora 
District  Jail,  I  wrote  the  last  line  of  my  autobiography.  Eight  months 
later  I  added  a  postscript  from  Badenweiler  in  Germany.  That  auto 
biography,  published  in  England,  had  a  kindly  reception  from  all  man 
ner  of  people  in  various  countries,  and  I  was  glad  that  what  I  had 
written  had  brought  India  nearer  to  many  friends  abroad,  and  had 
made  them  appreciate,  to  some  extent,  the  inner  significance  of  our 
struggle  for  freedom.  Unfortunately  this  book  did  not  reach  the  Ameri 
can  public,  and  various  happenings  conspired  to  delay  an  American 
edition.  I  am  happy  that  at  last  it  is  going  to  appear  in  a  new  garb 
in  America. 

My  publisher  has  asked  me  to  add  to  it  in  order  to  bring  it  up  to 
date.  His  demand  is  reasonable,  and  I  could  not  deny  it.  And  yet  I 
have  found  it  no  easy  matter  to  comply  with  it.  We  live  in  strange 
times,  when  life's  normal  course  has  been  completely  upset,  and  it  is 
difficult  for  me  even  to  communicate  with  my  publisher.  With  my 
approval,  my  autobiography  has  now  been  abridged  considerably,  for 
much  that  it  contained  is  perhaps  of  little  interest  today,  especially  to 
American  readers.  And  yet  I  do  not  know  what  this  abridgement  is, 
what  has  been  taken  out,  what  remains.  We  have  been  unable  to  over- 

355 


come  the  difficulties  of  communication  which  war  brings  in  its  train. 
America  seems  to  be  very  far  away  from  India  now,  and  sometimes  it 
takes  many  months  for  letters  to  cross  the  oceans.  And  then  there  is  the 
censor. 

But  a  more  serious  difficulty  confronted  me.  I  wrote  my  autobiog 
raphy  entirely  in  prison,  cut  off  from  outside  activity.  I  suffered  from 
various  humors  in  prison,  as  every  prisoner  does;  but  gradually  I  de 
veloped  a  mood  of  introspection  and  some  peace  of  mind.  How  am  I 
to  capture  that  mood  now,  how  am  I  to  fit  in  with  that  narrative? 
As  I  glance  through  my  book  again,  I  feel  almost  as  if  some  other 
person  had  written  a  story  of  long  ago.  The  five  years  that  have  gone 
by  have  changed  the  world  and  left  their  impress  upon  me.  Physically 
I  am  older,  of  course,  but  it  is  the  mind  that  has  received  shock  and 
sensation  again  and  again  and  has  hardened,  or  perhaps  matured.  My 
wife's  death  in  Switzerland  ended  a  chapter  of  my  existence  and  took 
away  much  from  my  life  that  had  been  part  of  my  being.  It  was  diffi 
cult  for  me  to  realize  that  she  was  no  more,  and  I  could  not  adjust 
myself  easily.  I  threw  myself  into  my  work,  seeking  some  satisfaction  in 
it,  and  rushed  about  from  end  to  end  of  India.  Even  more  than  in  my 
earlier  days,  my  life  became  an  alternation  of  huge  crowds  and  inten 
sive  activity  and  loneliness.  My  mother's  death  later  broke  a  final  link 
with  the  past.  My  daughter  was  away  studying  at  Oxford,  and  later 
under  treatment  in  a  sanatorium  abroad.  I  would  return  to  my  home 
from  my  wanderings  almost  unwillingly  and  sit  in  that  deserted  house 
all  by  myself,  trying  even  to  avoid  interviews  there.  I  wanted  peace 
after  the  crowds. 

But  there  was  no  peace  in  my  work  or  my  mind,  and  the  respon 
sibility  that  I  had  to  shoulder  often  oppressed  me  very  greatly.  I  could 
not  align  myself  with  various  parties  and  groups;  I  did  not  even  fit 
in  with  my  closest  colleagues.  I  could  not  function  as  I  wanted  to,  and 
at  the  same  time  I  prevented  others  from  functioning  as  they  wanted 
to.  A  sense  of  suppression  and  frustration  grew,  and  I  became  a  soli 
tary  figure  in  public  life,  though  vast  crowds  came  to  hear  me  and 
enthusiasm  surrounded  me. 

I  was  affected  more  than  others  by  the  development  of  events  in 
Europe  and  the  Far  East.  Munich  was  a  shock  hard  to  bear,  and  the 
tragedy  of  Spain  became  a  personal  sorrow  to  me.  As  these  years  of 
horror  succeeded  one  another,  the  sense  of  impending  catastrophe 
overwhelmed  me,  and  my  faith  in  a  bright  future  for  the  world  be 
came  dim, 

356 


And  now  the  catastrophe  has  come.  The  volcanoes  in  Europe  spit  fire 
and  destruction,  and  here  in  India  I  sit  on  the  edge  of  another  volcano, 
not  knowing  when  it  may  burst.  It  is  difficult  to  tear  myself  away 
from  the  problem  of  the  moment,  to  develop  the  mood  of  retrospec 
tion  and  survey  these  five  years  that  have  gone  by,  and  write  calmly 
about  them.  And,  even  if  I  could  do  so,  I  would  have  to  write  another 
big  book,  for  there  is  so  much  to  say.  I  shall  endeavor,  therefore,  as 
best  I  may,  to  refer  briefly  only  to  certain  events  and  developments  in 
which  I  have  played  a  part  or  which  have  affected  me. 

I  was  with  my  wife  when  she  died  in  Lausanne  on  February  28, 1936. 
A  little  while  before,  news  had  reached  me  that  I  had  been  elected 
president  of  the  Indian  National  Congress  for  the  second  time.  I  re 
turned  to  India  by  air  soon  after,  and  on  my  way,  in  Rome,  I  had  a 
curious  experience.  Some  days  before  my  departure  a  message  was 
conveyed  to  me  that  Signor  Mussolini  would  like  to  meet  me  when  I 
passed  through  Rome.  In  spite  of  my  strong  disapproval  of  the  fascist 
regime,  I  would  ordinarily  have  liked  to  meet  Signor  Mussolini  and  to 
find  out  for  myself  what  a  person  who  was  playing  such  an  important 
part  in  the  world's  affairs  was  like.  But  I  was  in  no  mood  for  inter 
views  then.  What  came  in  my  way  even  more  was  the  continuance  of 
the  Abyssinian  campaign  and  my  apprehension  that  such  an  interview 
would  inevitably  be  used  for  purposes  of  fascist  propaganda.  No  denial 
from  me  would  go  far.  I  remembered  how  Mr.  Gandhi,  when  he 
passed  through  Rome  in  1931,  had  a  bogus  interview  in  the  Giornale 
d'ltalia  fastened  on  to  him.  I  remembered  also  several  other  instances 
of  Indians  visiting  Italy  being  used,  against  their  wishes,  for  fascist 
propaganda.  I  was  assured  that  nothing  of  the  kind  would  happen  to 
me  and  that  our  interview  would  be  entirely  private.  Still,  I  decided  to 
avoid  it,  and  I  conveyed  my  regrets  to  Signor  Mussolini. 

I  could  not  avoid  going  through  Rome,  however,  as  the  Dutch 
K.L.M.  airplane  I  was  traveling  on  spent  a  night  there.  Soon  after  my 
arrival  in  Rome,  a  high  official  called  upon  me  and  gave  me  an  invi 
tation  to  meet  Signor  Mussolini  that  evening.  It  had  all  been  fixed 
up,  he  told  me.  I  was  surprised  and  pointed  out  that  I  had  already 
asked  to  be  excused.  We  argued  for  an  hour,  till  the  time  fixed  for 
the  interview  itself,  and  then  I  had  my  way.  There  was  no  interview. 

I  returned  to  India  and  plunged  into  my  work.  Within  a  few  days 
of  my  return  I  had  to  preside  over  the  annual  session  of  the  National 
Congress.  For  some  years,  which  I  had  spent  mainly  in  prison,  I  had 

357 


been  out  of  touch  with  developments.  I  found  many  changes,  new 
alignments,  a  hardening  on  party  lines  within  the  Congress.  There  was 
an  atmosphere  of  suspicion  and  bitterness  and  conflict.  I  treated  this 
lightly,  having  confidence  in  my  own  capacity  to  deal  with  the  situa 
tion.  For  a  short  while  I  seemed  to  carry  the  Congress  in  the  direction 
I  wanted  it  to  go.  But  I  realized  soon  that  the  conflict  was  deep-rooted, 
and  it  was  not  so  easy  to  charm  away  the  suspicion  of  each  other  and 
the  bitterness  that  had  grown  in  our  ranks.  I  thought  seriously  of  re 
signing  from  the  presidency,  but,  realizing  that  this  would  only  make 
matters  worse,  I  refrained. 

Again  and  again,  during  the  next  few  months,  I  considered  this 
question  of  resignation.  I  found  it  difficult  to  work  smoothly  with  my 
own  colleagues  in  the  Congress  executive,  and  it  became  clear  to  me 
that  they  viewed  my  activities  with  apprehension.  It  was  not  so  much 
that  they  .objected  to  any  specific  act,  but  they  disliked  the  general 
trend  and  direction.  They  had  justification  for  this,  as  my  outlook  was 
different.  I  was  completely  loyal  to  Congress  decisions,  but  I  empha 
sized  certain  aspects  of  them,  while  my  colleagues  emphasized  other 
aspects.  I  decided  finally  to  resign,  and  I  informed  Gandhiji  of  my 
decision.  In  the  course  of  my  letter  to  him  I  wrote:  "Since  my 
return  from  Europe  I  have  found  that  the  meetings  of  the  Working 
Committee  exhaust  me  greatly;  they  have  a  devitalizing  effect  on  me, 
and  I  have  almost  the  feeling  of  being  much  older  in  years  after  every 
fresh  experience.  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  this  feeling  was  also 
shared  by  my  colleagues  of  the  Committee.  It  is  an  unhealthy  experi 
ence,  and  it  comes  in  the  way  of  effective  work." 

Soon  afterward  a  far-away  occurrence,  unconnected  with  India,  af 
fected  me  greatly  and  made  me  change  my  decision.  This  was  the  news 
of  General  Franco's  revolt  in  Spain.  I  saw  this  rising,  with  its  back 
ground  of  German  and  Italian  assistance,  developing  into  a  European 
or  even  a  world  conflict.  India  was  bound  to  be  drawn  into  this,  and 
I  could  not  afford  to  weaken  our  organization  and  create  an  internal 
crisis  by  resigning  just  when  it  was  essential  for  us  to  pull  together.  I 
was  not  wholly  wrong  in  my  analysis  of  the  situation,  though  I  was 
premature  and  my  mind  rushed  to  conclusions  which  took  some  years 
to  materialize.  ] 

The  reaction  of  the  Spanish  War  on  me  indicates  how,  in  my  mind, 
the  problem  of  India  was  tied  up  with  other  world  problems.  More  and 
more  I  came  to  think  that  these  separate  problems,  political  or  eco 
nomic,  in  China,  Abyssinia,  Spain,  Central  Europe,  India,  or  elsewhere, 

35s 


Generalissimo  Chiang  Kai-shek,  Madam  Chiang,  and  Jawaharlal  Nehru, 
during  Nehru's  visit  to  Chungking  in  1939 


Acme 


Jawaharlal  Nehru  in  his  study,  1940 


were  facets  of  one  and  the  same  world  problem.  There  could  be  no 
final  solution  of  any  one  of  them  till  this  basic  problem  was  solved. 
And  in  all  probability  there  would  be  upheaval  and  disaster  before  the 
final  solution  was  reached.  As  peace  was  said  to  be  indivisible  in  the 
present-day  world,  so  also  freedom  was  indivisible,  and  the  world 
could  not  continue  for  long  part  free,  part  unfree.  The  challenge  of 
fascism  and  Nazi-ism  was  in  essence  the  challenge  of  imperialism. 
They  were  twin  brothers,  with  this  variation,  that  imperialism  func 
tioned  abroad  in  colonies  and  dependencies  while  fascism  and  Nazi-ism 
functioned  in  the  same  way  in  the  home  country  also.  If  freedom  was 
to  be  established  in  the  world,  not  only  fascism  and  Nazi-ism  had  to  go, 
but  imperialism  had  to  be  completely  liquidated. 

This  reaction  to  foreign  events  was  not  confined  to  me.  Many  others 
in  India  began,  to  some  extent,  to  feel  that  way,  and  even  the  public 
was  interested.  This  public  interest  was  kept  up  by  thousands  of  meet 
ings  and  demonstrations  that  the  Congress  organized  all  over  the  coun 
try  in  sympathy  with  the  people  of  China,  Abyssinia,  Palestine,  and 
Spain.  Some  attempts  were  also  made  by  us  to  send  aid,  in  the  shape 
of  medical  supplies  and  food,  to  China  and  Spain.  This  wider  interest 
in  international  affairs  helped  to  raise  our  own  national  struggle  to  a 
higher  level  and  to  lessen  somewhat  the  narrowness  which  is  always 
a  feature  of  nationalism. 

But,  inevitably,  foreign  affairs  did  not  touch  the  life  of  the  average 
person,  who  was  absorbed  in  his  own  troubles.  The  peasant  was  full 
of  his  growing  difficulties,  his  appalling  poverty,  and  of  the  many  bur 
dens  that  crushed  him.  The  agrarian  problem  was,  after  all,  the  major 
problem  of  India,  and  the  Congress  had  gradually  evolved  an  agrarian 
program  which,  though  going  far,  yet  accepted  the  present  structure. 
The  industrial  worker  was  little  better  off,  and  there  were  frequent 
strikes.  Politically  minded  people  discussed  the  new  constitution  that 
had  been  imposed  upon  India  by  the  British  Parliament.  This  consti 
tution,  though  giving  some  power  in  the  provinces,  kept  the  reality  of 
power  in  the  hands  of  the  British  Government  and  their  representa 
tives.  For  the  Central  Government  a  federation  was  proposed  which 
tied  up  feudal  and  autocratic  states  with  semidemocratic  provinces,  and 
was  intended  to  perpetuate  the  British  imperialist  structure.  It  was  a 
fantastic  affair,  which  could  never  work,  and  which  had  every  safe 
guard  that  the  wit  of  man  could  devise  to  protect  British  vested  inter 
ests.  This  constitution  was  indignantly  rejected  by  the  Congress,  and 
in  fact  there  was  hardly  anyone  in  India  who  had  a  good  word  for  it. 

359 


At  first  the  provincial  part  of  it  was  applied.  In  spite  of  our  rejection 
of  the  constitution,  we  decided  to  contest  elections,  as  this  brought  us 
into  intimate  touch  not  only  with  millions  of  voters,  but  also  others. 
This  general  election  was  a  memorable  affair  for  me.  I  was  not  a  can 
didate  myself,  but  I  toured  all  over  India  on  behalf  of  Congress  candi 
dates,  and  I  imagine  that  I  created  some  kind  of  a  record  in  the  way 
of  election  campaigns.  In  the  course  of  about  four  months  I  traveled 
about  fifty  thousand  miles,  using  every  kind  of  convenience  for  this 
purpose,  and  often  going  into  remote  rural  areas  where  there  were  no 
proper  means  of  transport.  I  traveled  by  airplane,  railway,  automobile, 
motor  truck,  horse  carriages  of  various  kinds,  bullock  cart,  bicycle, 
elephant,  camel,  horse,  steamer,  paddle-boat,  canoe,  and-  on  foot. 

I  carried  about  with  me  microphones  and  loud-speakers  and  ad 
dressed  a  dozen  meetings  a  day,  apart  from  impromptu  gatherings  by 
the  roadside.  Some  mammoth  gatherings  approached  a  hundred  thou 
sand;  the  average  audience  was  usually  twenty  thousand.  The  daily 
total  of  persons  attending  was  frequendy  a  hundred  thousand,  and 
sometimes  it  was  much  greater.  On  a  rough  estimate  it  can  be  said 
that  ten  million  persons  actually  attended  the  meetings  I  addressed, 
and  probably  several  million  more  were  brought  into  some  kind  of 
touch  with  me  during  my  journeying  by  road. 

I  rushed  about  from  place  to  place,  from  the  northern  frontiers  of 
India  to  the  southern  seas,  taking  little  rest,  kept  up  by  the  excitement 
of  the  moment  and  the  enormous  enthusiasm  that  met  me.  It  was  an 
extraordinary  feat  of  physical  endurance  which  surprised  me.  This  elec 
tion  campaign,  in  which  large  numbers  of  people  took  part  on  our 
behalf,  stirred  up  the  whole  countryside,  and  a  new  life  was  visible 
everywhere.  For  us  it  was  something  much  more  than  an  election  cam 
paign.  We  were  interested  not  only  in  the  thirty  million  voters  but 
also  in  the  hundreds  of  millions  of  others  who  had  no  votes. 

There  was  another  aspect  of  this  extensive  touring  which  gripped 
me.  For  me  it  was  a  voyage  of  discovery  of  India  and  her  people.  I 
saw  a  thousand  facets  of  this  country  of  mine  in  all  their  rich  diver 
sity,  and  yet  always  with  the  unifying  impress  of  India  upon  them.  I 
gazed  at  the  millions  of  friendly  eyes  that  looked  up  at  me  and  tried 
to  understand  what  lay  behind  them.  The  more  I  saw  of  India,  the 
more  I  felt  how  little  I  knew  of  her  infinite  charm  and  variety,  how 
much  more  there  was  for  me  to  find  out.  She  seemed  to  smile  at  me 
often,  and  sometimes  to  mock  at  me  and  elude  me. 

Sometimes,  though  rarely,  I  took  a  day  off  and  visited  some  famous 

360 


sight  near  by — the  Ajanta  Caves  or  Mohenjo  Daro  in  the  Indus  Valley. 
For  a  brief  while  I  lived  in  the  past,  and  the  Bodhisatvas  and  the  beau 
tiful  women  of  the  Ajanta  Frescoes  filled  my  mind.  Some  days  later 
I  would  start  with  surprise  as  I  looked  at  some  woman,  working  in 
the  fields  or  drawing  water  from  a  village  well,  for  she  would  remind 
me  of  the  women  of  Ajanta. 

The  Congress  triumphed  in  the  general  election,  and  there  was  a 
great  argument  as  to  whether  we  should  accept  ministries  in  the  prov 
inces.  Ultimately  it  was  decided  that  we  should  do  so  but  on  the  under 
standing  that  there  would  be  no  interference  from  the  Viceroy  or  the 
governors. 

In  the  summer  of  1937  I  visited  Burma  and  Malaya.  It  was  no  holi 
day,  as  crowds  and  engagements  pursued  me  everywhere,  but  the 
change  was  pleasant,  and  I  loved  to  see  and  meet  the  flowery  and 
youthful  people  of  Burma,  so  unlike  in  many  ways  the  people  of  India 
with  the  stamp  of  long  ages  past  upon  them. 

New  problems  faced  us  in  India.  In  most  of  the  provinces  Congress 
governments  were  in  power,  and  many  of  the  ministers  had  spent 
years  in  prison  previously.  My  sister,  Vijaya  Lakshmi  Pandit,  became 
one  of  the  ministers  in  the  United  Provinces — the  first  woman  minis 
ter  in  India.  The  immediate  effect  of  the  coming  of  the  Congress 
ministries  was  a  feeling  of  relief  in  the  countryside,  as  if  a  great  burden 
had  been  lifted.  A  new  life  coursed  through  the  whole  country,  and 
the  peasant  and  the  worker  expected  big  things  to  happen  immediately. 
Political  prisoners  were  released,  and  a  large  measure  of  civil  liberty, 
such  as  had  not  been  known  previously,  was  established.  The  Congress 
ministers  worked  hard  and  made  others  work  hard  also.  But  they  had 
to  work  with  the  old  apparatus  of  government,  which  was  wholly 
alien  to  them  and  often  hostile.  Even  the  services  were  not  under  their 
control.  Twice  there  was  a  conflict  with  the  governors,  and  the  minis 
ters  offered  their  resignations.  Thereupon  the  governors  accepted  the 
viewpoint  of  the  ministers,  and  the  crisis  ended.  But  the  power  and 
influence  of  the  old  services — the  civil  service,  the  police,  and  others — 
backed  by  the  governor  and  buttressed  by  the  constitution  itself,  were 
great  and  could  make  themselves  felt  in  a  hundred  ways.  Progress  was 
slow,  and  dissatisfaction  arose. 

This  dissatisfaction  found  expression  in  the  Congress  itself,  and  the 
more  advanced  elements  grew  restive.  I  was  myself  unhappy  at  the 
trend  of  events  as  I  noticed  that  our  fine  fighting  organization  was 
being  converted  gradually  into  just  an  electioneering  organization.  A 

361 


struggle  for  independence  seemed  to  be  inevitable,  and  this  phase  of 
provincial  autonomy  was  just  a  passing  one.  In  April  1938  I  wrote  to 
Gandhiji  expressing  my  dissatisfaction  at  the  work  of  the  Congress 
ministries.  "They  are  trying  to  adapt  themselves  far  too  much  to  the 
old  order  and  trying  to  justify  it.  But  all  this,  bad  as  it  is,  might  be 
tolerated.  What  is  far  worse  is  that  we  are  losing  the  high  position 
that  we  have  built  up,  with  so  much  labor,  in  the  hearts  of  the  people. 
We  are  sinking  to  the  level  of  ordinary  politicians." 

I  was  perhaps  unnecessarily  hard  on  the  Congress  ministers;  the 
fault  lay  much  more  in  the  situation  itself  and  in  the  circumstances. 
The  record  of  these  ministries  was  in  fact  a  formidable  one  in  numer 
ous  fields  of  national  activity.  But  they  had  to  function  within  certain 
limits,  and  our  problems  required  going  outside  these  limits.  Among 
the  many  good  things  that  they  did  were  the  agrarian  legislation  they 
passed,  giving  considerable  relief  to  the  peasantry,  and  the  introduction 
of  what  is  called  basic  education.  This  basic  education  is  intended  to 
be  made  free  and  compulsory  for  every  child  in  the  country  for  seven 
years,  from  the  age  of  seven  to  fourteen.  It  is  based  on  the  modern 
method  of  teaching  through  a  craft,  and  it  has  been  so  evolved  as  to 
reduce  the  capital  and  recurring  cost  very  greatly,  without  in  any  way 
impairing  the  efficiency  of  education.  For  a  poor  country  like  India, 
with  scores  of  millions  of  children  to  educate,  the  question  of  cost  is 
important.  This  system  has  already  revolutionized  education  in  India 
and  is  full  of  promise. 

Higher  education  was  also  tackled  vigorously,  and  so  also  public 
health,  but  the  efforts  of  the  Congress  governments  had  not  borne 
much  fruit  when  they  finally  resigned.  Adult  literacy,  however,  was 
pushed  with  enthusiasm  and  yielded  good  results.  Rural  reconstruction 
also  had  a  great  deal  of  attention  paid  to  it. 

The  record  of  the  Congress  governments  was  impressive,  but  all  this 
good  work  could  not  solve  the  fundamental  problems  of  India.  That 
required  deeper  and  more  basic  changes  and  an  ending  of  the  im 
perialistic  structure  which  preserved  all  manner  of  vested  interests. 

So  conflict  grew  within  the  Congress  between  the  more  moderate 
and  the  more  advanced  sections.  The  first  organized  expression  of  this 
took  place  in  a  meeting  of  the  All-India  Congress  Committee  in  Oc 
tober  1937.  This  distressed  Gandhiji  greatly,  and  he  expressed  himself 
strongly  in  private.  Subsequently  he  wrote  an  article  in  which  he  dis 
approved  of  some  action  I  had  taken  as  Congress  president. 

I  felt  that  I  could  no  longer  carry  on  as  a  responsible  member  of 

362 


the  Executive,  but  I  decided  not  to  do  anything  to  precipitate  a  crisis. 
My  term  of  office  as  Congress  president  was  drawing  to  an  end,  and 
I  could  drop  out  quietly  then.  I  had  been  president  for  two  successive 
years  and  three  times  in  all.  There  was  some  talk  of  my  being  elected 
for  another  term,  but  I  was  quite  clear  in  my  own  mind  that  I  should 
not  stand.  About  this  time  I  played  a  little  trick  which  amused  me 
greatly.  I  wrote  an  article,  which  was  published  anonymously  in  the 
Modern  Review  of  Calcutta,  in  which  I  opposed  my  own  re-election.1 
No  one,  not  even  the  editor,  knew  who  had  written  it,  and  I  watched 
with  great  interest  its  reaction  on  my  colleagues  and  others.  All  manner 
of  wild  guesses  were  made  about  the  writer,  but  very  few  people  knew 
the  truth  till  John  Gunther  mentioned  it  in  his  book  Inside  Asia. 

Subhas  Bose  was  elected  president  of  the  next  Congress  session, 
which  was  held  at  Haripura,  and  soon  afterward  I  decided  to  go  to 
Europe.  I  wanted  to  see  my  daughter,  but  the  real  reason  was  to 
freshen  up  my  tired  and  puzzled  mind. 

But  Europe  was  hardly  the  place  for  peaceful  contemplation  or  for 
light  to  illumine  the  dark  corners  of  the  mind.  There  was  gloom  there 
and  the  apparent  stillness  that  comes  before  the  storm.  It  was  the  Eu 
rope  of  1938  with  Mr.  Neville  Chamberlain's  appeasement  in  full  swing 
and  marching  over  the  bodies  of  nations,  betrayed  and  crushed,  to  the 
final  scene  that  was  staged  at  Munich.  I  entered  into  this  Europe  of 
conflict  by  flying  straight  to  Barcelona.  There  I  remained  for  five  days 
and  watched  the  bombs  fall  nightly  from  the  air.  There  I  saw  much 
else  that  impressed  me  powerfully;  and  there,  in  the  midst  of  want 
and  destruction  and  ever-impending  disaster,  I  felt  more  at  peace  with 
myself  than  anywhere  else  in  Europe.  There  was  light  there,  the  light 
of  courage  and  determination  and  of  doing  something  worth  while. 

I  went  to  England  and  spent  a  month  there  and  met  people  of  all 
degrees  and  all  shades  of  opinion.  I  sensed  a  change  in  the  average 
man,  a  change  in  the  right  direction.  But  there  was  no  change  at  the 
top  where  Chamberlainism  sat  triumphantly.  And  then  I  went  to 
Czechoslovakia  and  watched  at  close  quarters  the  difficult  and  intricate 
game  of  how  to  betray  your  friend  and  the  cause  you  are  supposed  to 
stand  for  on  the  highest  moral  grounds.  I  followed  this  game  during 
the  Munich  crisis  from  London,  Paris,  and  Geneva  and  came  to  many 
strange  conclusions.  What  surprised  me  most  was  the  utter  collapse, 
in  the  moment  of  crisis,  of  all  the  so-called  advanced  people  and  groups. 

1  See  Appendix  E. 

363 


Geneva  gave  me  the  impression  of  archaeological  remains,  with  the 
dead  bodies  of  the  hundreds  of  international  organizations  that  had 
their  headquarters  there,  lying  about.  London  exhibited  tremendous 
relief  that  war  had  been  averted  and  cared  for  little  else.  Others  had 
paid  the  price,  and  it  did  not  matter;  but  it  was  going  to  matter  very 
much  before  a  year  was  out.  The  star  of  Mr.  Chamberlain  was  in  the 
ascendant,  though  protesting  voices  were  heard.  Paris  distressed  me 
greatly,  especially  the  middle-class  section  of  it,  which  did  not  even 
protest  overmuch.  This  was  the  Paris  of  the  Revolution,  the  symbol 
of  liberty  the  world  over. 

I  returned  from  Europe  sad  at  heart  with  many  illusions  shattered. 
On  my  way  back  I  stopped  in  Egypt,  where  Mustafa  Nahas  Pasha  and 
the  other  leaders  of  the  Wafd  party  gave  me  a  warm  welcome.  I  was 
glad  to  meet  them  again  and  to  discuss  our  common  problems  in  the 
light  of  the  fast-developing  world  situation.  Some  months  later  a  depu 
tation  from  the  Wafd  party  visited  us  in  India  and  attended  our  annual 
Congress  session. 

In  India  the  old  problems  and  conflicts  continued,  and  I  had  to  face 
the  old  difficulty  of  how  to  fit  in  with  my  colleagues.  It  distressed  me 
to  see  that  on  the  eve  of  a  world  upheaval  many  Congressmen  were 
wrapped  up  in  these  petty  rivalries.  Yet  there  was  some  sense  of  pro 
portion  and  understanding  among  Congressmen  in  the  upper  circles 
of  the  organization.  Outside  the  Congress,  the  deterioration  was  much 
more  marked.  Communal  rivalry  and  tension  had  increased,  and  the 
Moslem  League,  under  Mr.  M.  A.  Jinnah's  leadership,  was  aggres 
sively  antinationalist  and  narrow-minded  and  continued  to  pursue  an 
astonishing  course.  There  was  no  constructive  suggestion,  no  attempt 
even  to  meet  halfway,  no  answers  to  questions  as  to  what  exactly  they 
wanted.  It  was  a  negative  program  of  hatred  and  violence,  reminiscent 
of  Nazi  methods.  What  was  particularly  distressing  was  the  growing 
vulgarity  of  communal  organizations  which  was  affecting  our  public 
life.  There  were,  of  course,  many  Moslem  organizations  and  large  num 
bers  of  Moslems  who  disapproved  of  the  activities  of  the  Moslem 
League  and  favored  the  Congress. 

Following  this  course,  the  Moslem  League  inevitably  went  more  and 
more  astray  till  it  stood  openly  against  democracy  in  India  and  even 
for  the  partition  of  the  country.  They  were  encouraged  in  these  fan 
tastic  demands  by  British  officials,  who  wanted  to  exploit  the  Moslem 
League,  as  all  other  disruptive  forces,  in  order  to  weaken  the  Congress 
influence.  It  was  astonishing  that  just  when  it  became  obvious  that 

364 


small  nations  had  no  further  place  in  the  world,  except  as  parts  of  a 
federation  of  nations,  there  should  be  this  demand  for  a  splitting  up 
of  India.  Probably  the  demand  was  not  seriously  meant,  but  it  was 
the  logical  consequence  of  the  two-nation  theory  that  Mr,  Jinnah  had 
advanced.  The  new  development  of  communalism  had  little  to  do  with 
religious  differences.  These  admittedly  could  be  adjusted.  It  was  a 
political  conflict  between  those  who  wanted  a  free,  united,  and  demo 
cratic  India  and  certain  reactionary  and  feudal  elements  who,  under 
the  guise  of  religion,  wanted  to  preserve  their  special  interests.  Re 
ligion,  as  practiced  and  exploited  in  this  way  by  its  votaries  of  differ 
ent  creeds,  seemed  to  me  a  curse  and  a  barrier  to  all  progress,  social 
and  individual.  Religion,  which  was  supposed  to  encourage  spirituality 
and  brotherly  feeling,  became  the  fountainhead  of  hatred,  narrowness, 
meanness,  and  the  lowest  materialism. 

Matters  came  to  a  head  in  the  Congress  at  the  presidential  election 
early  in  1939.  Unfortunately  Maulana  Abul  Kalam  Azad  refused  to 
stand,  and  Subhas  Chandra  Bose  was  elected  after  a  contest.  This  gave 
rise  to  all  manner  of  complications  and  deadlocks  which  persisted  for 
many  months.  At  the  Tripuri  Congress  there  were  unseemly  scenes. 
I  was  at  that  time  very  low  in  spirits,  and  it  was  difficult  for  me  to 
carry  on  without  a  breakdown.  Political  events,  national  and  interna 
tional  happenings,  affected  me,  of  course;  but  the  immediate  causes 
were  unconnected  with  public  affairs.  I  was  disgusted  with  myself,  and 
in  a  press  article  I  wrote:  "I  fear  I  give  little  satisfaction  to  them  [my 
colleagues],  and  yet  that  is  not  surprising,  for  I  give  even  less  satis 
faction  to  myself.  It  is  not  out  of  this  stuff  that  leadership  comes,  and 
the  sooner  my  colleagues  realize  this  the  better  for  them  and  me.  The 
mind  functions  efficiently  enough,  the  intellect  is  trained  to  carry  on 
through  habit,  but  the  springs  that  give  life  and  vitality  to  that  func 
tioning  seem  to  dry  up." 

Subhas  Bose  resigned  from  the  presidency  and  started  the  Forward 
Bloc,  which  was  intended  to  be  almost  a  rival  organization  to  the 
Congress.  It  petered  out  after  a  while,  as  it  was  bound  to  do,  but  it 
added  to  the  disruptive  tendencies  and  the  general  deterioration.  Un 
der  cover  of  fine  phrases,  adventurist  and  opportunist  elements  found 
platforms,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  rise  of  the  Nazi  party 
in  Germany.  Their  way  had  been  to  mobilize  mass  support  for  one 
program  and  then  to  utilize  this  for  an  entirely  different  purpose. 

Deliberately  I  kept  out  of  the  new  Congress  Executive.  I  felt  I  could 
not  fit  in,  and  I  did  not  like  much  that  had  been  done.  Gandhiji's  fast 

365 


in  connection  with  Rajkot  and  the  subsequent  developments  upset  me. 
I  wrote  then  that  the  "sense  of  helplessness  increases  after  the  Rajkot 
events.  I  cannot  function  where  I  do  not  understand,  and  I  do  not 
understand  at  all  the  logic  of  what  has  taken  place."  "More  and  more," 
I  added,  "the  choice  before  many  of  us  becomes  difficult,  and  this  is 
no  question  of  Right  or  Left  or  even  of  political  decisions.  The  choice 
is  of  unthinking  acceptance  of  decisions  which  sometimes  contradict 
one  another  and  have  no  logical  sequence,  or  opposition,  or  inaction. 
Not  one  of  these  courses  is  easily  commendable.  To  accept  unthink 
ingly  what  one  cannot  appreciate  or  willingly  agree  to  produces  mental 
flabbiness  and  paralysis.  No  great  movement  can  be  carried  on  on  this 
basis;  certainly  not  a  democratic  movement.  Opposition  is  difficult 
when  it  weakens  us  and  helps  the  adversary.  Inaction  produces  frustra 
tion  and  all  manner  of  complexes  when  from  every  side  comes  the  call 
for  action." 

Soon  after  my  return  from  Europe  at  the  end  of  1938,  two  other 
activities  claimed  my  attention.  I  presided  over  the  All-India  States' 
Peoples'  Conference  at  Ludhiana  and  thus  became  even  more  inti 
mately  connected  with  the  progressive  movements  in  the  semifeudal 
Indian  states.  In  large  numbers  of  these  states  there  had  been  a  grow 
ing  ferment,  occasionally  leading  to  clashes  between  the  peoples'  or 
ganizations  and  the  authorities,  which  were  often  helped  by  British 
troops.  It  is  difficult  to  write  in  restrained  language  about  those  states 
or  about  the  part  that  the  British  Government  has  played  in  maintain 
ing  these  relics  of  the  Middle  Ages.  A  recent  writer  has  rightly  called 
them  Britain's  Fifth  Column  in  India.  There  are  some  enlightened 
rulers  who  want  to  side  with  their  people  and  introduce  substantial 
reforms,  but  the  paramount  power  comes  in  the  way.  A  democratic 
state  will  not  function  as  a  fifth  column. 

It  is  clear  that  these  five  hundred  and  fifty-odd  states  cannot  func 
tion  separately  as  political  or  economic  units.  They  cannot  remain  as 
feudal  enclaves  in  a  democratic  India.  A  few  large  ones  may  become 
democratic  units  in  a  federation;  the  others  must  be  completely  ab 
sorbed.  No  minor  reforms  can  solve  this  problem.  The  states  system 
will  have  to  go,  and  it  will  go  when  British  imperialism  goes. 

My  other  activity  was  the  chairmanship  of  a  National  Planning 
Committee  which  was  formed  under  Congress  auspices  with  the  co 
operation  of  the  provincial  governments.  As  we  proceeded  with  this 
work,  it  grew  and  grew,  till  it  embraced  almost  every  phase  of  national 
activity.  We  appointed  twenty-nine  subcommittees  for  various  groups 

366 


of  subjects — agricultural,  industrial,  social,  economic,  financial — and 
tried  to  co-ordinate  their  activities  so  as  to  produce  a  scheme  of  planned 
economy  for  India.  Our  scheme  will  necessarily  be  in  outline  which 
will  have  to  be  filled  in  later.  The  Planning  Committee  is  still  func 
tioning  and  is  not  likely  to  finish  its  labors  for  some  months  more. 
For  me  this  has  been  fascinating  work,  and  I  have  learned  much  from 
it.  It  is  clear  that  any  scheme  that  we  may  produce  can  only  be  given 
effect  to  in  a  free  India.  It  is  also  clear  that  any  effective  planning  must 
involve  a  socialization  of  the  economic  structure. 

In  the  summer  of  1939  I  paid  a  brief  visit  to  Ceylon,  as  friction  had 
grown  there  between  the  Indian  residents  and  the  Government.  I  was 
happy  to  be  back  again  in  that  beautiful  island,  and  my  visit,  I  think, 
laid  the  foundations  for  closer  relations  between  India  and  Ceylon.  I 
had  the  most  cordial  of  welcomes  from  everybody,  including  the  Cey- 
lonese  members  of  the  Government.  I  have  no  doubt  that  in  any  future 
order  Ceylon  and  India  must  hang  together.  My  own  picture  of  the 
future  is  a  federation  which  includes  China  and  India,  Burma  and 
Ceylon,  Afghanistan,  and  possibly  other  countries.  If  a  world  federa 
tion  comes,  that  will  be  welcome. 

The  situation  in  Europe  in  August  1939  was  threatening,  and  I  did 
not  want  to  leave  India  at  a  moment  of  crisis.  But  the  desire  to  visit 
China,  even  for  a  short  while,  was  strong.  So  I  flew  to  China,  and 
within  two  days  of  my  leaving  India  I  was  in  Chungking.  Very  soon 
I  had  to  rush  back  to  India,  as  war  had  at  last  descended  upon  Europe. 
I  spent  less  than  two  weeks  in  free  China,  but  these  two  weeks  were 
memorable  ones  both  personally  for  me  and  for  the  future  relations 
of  India  and  China.  I  found,  to  my  joy,  that  my  desire  that  China  and 
India  should  draw  closer  to  each  other  was  fully  reciprocated  by  China's 
leaders,  and  more  especially  by  that  great  man  who  has  become  the 
symbol  of  China's  unity  and  her  determination  to  be  free.  I  met  Mar 
shal  Chiang  Kai-shek  and  Madame  Chiang  many  times,  and  we  dis 
cussed  the  present  and  the  future  of  our  respective  countries.  I  returned 
to  India  an  even  greater  admirer  of  China  and  the  Chinese  people  than 
I  had  been  previously,  and  I  could  not  imagine  that  any  adverse  fate 
could  break  the  spirit  of  these  ancient  people,  who  had  grown  so 
young  again. 

War  and  India.  What  were  we  to  do  ?  For  years  past  we  had  thought 
about  this  and  proclaimed  our  policy.  Yet  in  spite  of  all  this  the  British 
Government  declared  India  to  be  a  belligerent  country  without  any 

367 


reference  to  our  people,  to  the  Central  Assembly,  or  to  the  provincial 
governments.  That  was  a  slight  hard  to  get  over,  for  it  signified  that 
imperialism  functioned  as  before.  The  Congress  Working  Committee 
issued  a  long  statement  in  the  middle  of  September  1939,  in  which  our 
past  and  present  policy  was  defined  and  the  British  Government  was 
invited  to  explain  their  war  aims,  more  particularly  in  regard  to  Brit 
ish  imperialism.  We  had  frequently  condemned  fascism  and  Nazi-ism, 
but  we  were  more  intimately  concerned  with  the  imperialism  that 
dominated  over  us.  Was  this  imperialism  to  go?  Did  they  recognize 
the  independence  of  India  and  her  right  to  frame  her  own  constitu 
tion  through  a  Constituent  Assembly?  What  immediate  steps  would 
be  taken  to  introduce  popular  control  of  the  Central  Government? 
Later,  in  order  to  meet  every  possible  objection  of  any  minority  group, 
the  idea  behind  the  Constituent  Assembly  was  further  amplified.  It 
was  stated  that  minority  claims  would  be  setded  in  this  Assembly  with 
the  consent  of  the  minority  concerned,  and  not  by  a  majority  vote.  If 
such  agreement  was  not  possible  in  regard  to  any  issue,  then  this  was 
to  be  referred  to  an  impartial  tribunal  for  final  decision.  This  was  an 
unsafe  proposal  from  a  democratic  point  of  view,  but  the  Congress 
was  prepared  to  go  to  almost  any  length  in  order  to  allay  the  suspicions 
of  minorities. 

The  British  Government's  answer  was  clear.  It  left  no  doubt  that 
they  were  not  prepared  to  clarify  their  war  aims  or  to  hand  over  con 
trol  of  the  Government  to  the  people's  representatives.  The  old  order 
continued  and  was  to  continue,  and  British  interests  in  India  could  not 
be  left  unprotected.  The  Congress  ministries  in  the  provinces  thereupon 
resigned,  as  they  were  not  prepared  to  co-operate  on  these  terms  in  the 
prosecution  of  the  war.  The  constitution  was  suspended,  and  auto 
cratic  rule  was  re-established.  The  old  constitutional  conflict  of  Western 
countries  between  an  elected  parliament  and  the  king's  prerogative, 
which  had  cost  the  heads  of  two  kings  in  England  and  France,  took 
shape  in  India.  But  there  was  something  much  more  than  this  con 
stitutional  aspect.  The  volcano  was  not  in  action,  but  it  was  there  and 
rumblings  were  heard. 

The  impasse  continued,  and,  meanwhile,  new  laws  and  ordinances 
descended  upon  us  by  decree,  and  Congressmen  and  others  were  ar 
rested  in  ever-growing  numbers.  Resentment  grew  and  a  demand  for 
action  on  our  side.  But  the  course  of  the  war  and  the  peril  of  England 
itself  made  us  hesitate,  for  we  could  not  wholly  forget  the  old  lesson 

368 


which  Gandhi ji  had  taught  us,  that  our  objective  should  not  be  to 
embarrass  the  opponent  in  his  hour  of  need. 

As  the  war  progressed,  new  problems  arose,  or  the  old  problems 
took  new  shape,  and  the  old  alignments  seemed  to  change,  the  old 
standards  to  fade  away.  There  were  many  shocks,  and  adjustment  was 
difficult.  The  Russo-German  Pact,  the  Soviet's  invasion  of  Finland,  the 
friendly  approach  of  Russia  toward  Japan.  Were  there  any  principles, 
or  any  standards  of  conduct  in  this  world,  or  was  it  all  sheer  oppor 
tunism  ? 

April  came  and  the  Norwegian  debacle.  May  brought  the  horrors  of 
Holland  and  Belgium.  June,  the  sudden  collapse  of  France,  and  Paris, 
that  proud  and  fair  city,  nursery  of  freedom,  lay  crushed  and  fallen. 
Not  only  military  defeat  came  to  France  but,  what  was  infinitely 
worse,  spiritual  submission  and  degradation.  How  did  all  this  come 
about,  I  wondered,  unless  there  was  something  rotten  at  the  core?  Was 
it  that  England  and  France  were  the  outstanding  representatives  of  an 
old  order  that  must  pass,  and  therefore  they  were  unable  to  hold  out? 
Was  it  that  imperialism,  though  apparently  giving  them  strength, 
really  weakened  them  in  a  struggle  of  this  nature?  They  could  not 
fight  for  freedom  if  they  denied  it  themselves,  and  their  imperialism 
would  turn  to  unabashed  fascism,  as  it  had  done  in  France.  The 
shadow  of  Mr.  Neville  Chamberlain  and  his  old  policy  still  fell  on 
England.  The  Burma-China  route  was  being  closed  in  order  to  appease 
Japan.  And  here  in  India  there  was  no  hint  at  change,  and  our  self- 
imposed  restraint  was  understood  to  mean  an  incapacity  to  do  any 
thing  effective.  The  lack  of  any  vision  in  the  British  Government 
amazed  me,  their  utter  incapacity  to  read  the  signs  of  the  times  and  to 
understand  what  was  happening  and  adapt  themselves  to  it.  Was  this 
some  law  of  nature  that  in  international  happenings,  as  in  other  fields, 
cause  must  inexorably  be  followed  by  effect;  that  a  system  that  had 
ceased  to  have  any  useful  function  could  not  even  defend  itself  intelli 
gently  ? 

If  the  British  Government  were  slow  of  understanding  and  could 
not  learn  even  from  experience,  what  can  one  say  about  the  Govern 
ment  of  India  ?  There  is  something  comic  and  something  tragic  about 
the  functioning  of  this  Government,  for  nothing  seems  to  shake  them 
out  of  their  age-long  complacency;  neither  logic  nor  reason,  neither 
peril  nor  disaster.  Like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  they  sleep,  even  though  wak 
ing,  on  Simla  hill. 

The  developments  in  the  war  situation  posed  new  questions  before 


the  Congress  Working  Committee.  Gandhiji  wanted  the  Committee  to 
extend  tie  principle  of  nonviolence,  to  which  we  had  adhered  in  our 
struggle  for  freedom,  to  the  functioning  of  a  free  state.  A  free  India 
must  rely  on  this  principle  to  guard  itself  against  external  aggression  or 
internal  disorder.  This  question  did  not  rise  for  us  at  the  time,  but  it 
occupied  his  own  mind,  and  he  felt  that  the  time  had  come  for  a  clear 
enunciation.  Every  one  of  us  was  convinced  that  we  must  adhere  to 
our  policy  of  nonviolence,  as  we  had  so  far  done,  in  our  own  struggle. 
The  war  in  Europe  had  strengthened  this  conviction.  But  to  commit 
the  future  state  was  another  and  a  more  difficult  matter,  and  it  was  not 
easy  to  see  how  anyone  moving  on  the  plane  of  politics  could  do  it. 

Mr.  Gandhi  felt,  and  probably  rightly,  that  he  could  not  give  up  or 
tone  down  a  message  which  he  had  for  the  world.  He  must  have  free 
dom  to  give  it  as  he  liked  and  must  not  be  kept  back  by  political 
exigencies.  So,  for  the  first  time,  he  went  one  way  and  the  Congress 
Working  Committee  another.  There  was  no  break  with  him,  for  the 
bond  was  too  strong,  and  he  will  no  doubt  continue  to  advise  in  many 
ways  and  often  to  lead.  Yet  it  is  perhaps  true  that  by  his  partial  with 
drawal,  a  definite  period  in  the  history  of  our  national  movement  has 
come  to  an  end.  In  recent  years  I  have  found  a  certain  hardness  creep 
ing  into  him,  a  lessening  of  the  adaptability  that  he  possessed.  Yet  the 
old  spell  is  there,  the  old  charm  works,  and  his  personality  and  great 
ness  tower  over  others.  Let  no  one  imagine  that  his  influence  over 
India's  millions  is  any  the  less.  He  has  been  the  architect  of  India's 
destiny  for  twenty  years  and  more,  and  his  work  is  not  completed. 

During  the  last  few  weeks,  the  Congress,  at  the  instance  of  C. 
Rajagopalachari,  made  yet  another  offer  to  Britain.  Rajagopalachari  is 
said  to  belong  to  the  Right  in  the  Congress.  His  brilliant  intellect,  self 
less  character,  and  penetrating  powers  of  analysis  have  been  a  tremen 
dous  asset  to  our  cause.  He  was  the  Prime  Minister  of  Madras  during 
the  functioning  of  the  Congress  Government  there.  Eager  to  avoid  con 
flict,  he  put  forward  a  proposal  which  was  hesitatingly  accepted  by 
some  of  his  colleagues.  This  proposal  was  the  acknowledgment  of 
India's  independence  by  Britain  and  the  immediate  formation  at  the  cen 
ter  of  a  Provisional  National  Government,  which  would  be  responsible 
to  the  present  Central  Assembly.  If  this  were  done,  this  Government 
would  take  charge  of  defense  and  thus  help  in  the  war  effort. 

This  Congress  proposal  was  eminently  feasible  and  could  be  given 
effect  to  immediately  without  upsetting  anything.  The  National  Gov 
ernment  was  inevitably  going  to  be  a  composite  affair  with  full  repre- 

37° 


sentation  of  minority  groups.  The  proposal  was  definitely  a  moderate 
one.  From  the  point  of  view  of  defense  and  war  effort,  it  is  patent  that 
any  serious  effort  involves  the  confidence  and  co-operation  of  the 
people.  Only  a  national  government  has  the  chance  to  get  this.  It  is  not 
possible  through  imperialism. 

But  imperialism  thinks  otherwise  and  imagines  that  it  can  continue 
to  function  and  to  coerce  people  to  do  its  will.  Even  when  danger 
threatens,  it  is  not  prepared  to  get  this  very  substantial  help  if  this 
involves  a  giving  up  of  political  and  economic  control  over  India.  It 
does  not  care  even  for  the  tremendous  moral  prestige  which  would 
come  to  it  if  it  did  the  right  thing  in  India,  and  the  rest  of  the  Empire. 

Today,  on  August  8,  1940,  as  I  write  this,  the  Viceroy  has  given  us 
the  British  Government's  reply.  It  is  in  the  old  language  of  imperial 
ism,  and  the  content  has  changed  in  no  way.  The  sands  of  time  run 
out  here  in  India,  as  in  Europe  and  the  world. 

So  many  of  my  colleagues  have  gone  back  to  prison,  and  I  envy  them 
somewhat.  Perhaps  it  is  easier  to  develop  an  organic  sense  of  life  in  the 
solitude  of  confinement  than  in  this  mad  world  of  war  and  politics,  of 
fascism  and  imperialism. 

But  sometimes  there  is  an  escape  for  a  while  at  least  from  this  world. 
Last  month  I  went  back  to  Kashmir  after  an  absence  of  twenty-three 
years.  I  was  only  there  for  twelve  days,  but  these  days  were  filled  with 
beauty,  and  I  drank  in  the  loveliness  of  that  land  of  enchantment.  I 
wandered  about  the  Valley  and  the  higher  mountains  and  climbed  a 
glacier,  and  felt  that  life  was  worth  while. 

JAWAHARLAL  NEHRU 


371 


EPILOGUE 

THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS 

To  SAY  THAT  anything  has  happened  in  India  which  leads  to  a  parting 
of  the  ways  as  between  Britain  and  India  is  incorrect.  For  their  ways 
have  been  separate  as  they  were  bound  to  be,  so  long  as  England  was 
the  dominating  imperialist  Power  and  India  was  subject  to  her  will. 
Such  a  relation  could  only  be  based  on  coercion.,  and  coercion  cannot 
lead  to  a  marching  together,  hand  in  hand.  It  can  only  lead  to  the 
dominant  party's  chaining  and  pulling  the  other  and  dragging  it  against 
its  will,  or  to  a  breaking  of  this  chain. 

So  our  ways  have  lain  in  different  directions,  and  a  continuous  tug 
of  war  has  resulted;  sometimes  the  conflict  has  been  psychological  and 
wordy,  sometimes  it  has  been  rebellion.  In  1857  a  bloody  rebellion  took 
place,  and  it  was  suppressed  in  a  ghastly  manner.  The  conflict  con 
tinued,  bitter  and  persistent,  though  it  was  not  so  obvious  on  the  sur 
face.  It  took  shape  in  the  organization  of  the  national  movement, 
which  spoke  softly  for  a  while  but  whose  voice  grew  harder  as  it  came 
to  represent  the  real  feelings  of  the  people.  Another  rebellion  against 
the  dominating  authority  took  shape,  a  peaceful  one,  discarding  all 
methods  of  violence,  but  more  powerful  and  widespread  than  any 
previous  one.  The  hundreds  of  millions  of  India,  weary  of  their  long 
subjection  and  poverty  and  exploitation,  shed  their  fear  and,  looking 
the  dominating  imperialism  in  the  face,  demanded  freedom. 

There  were  many  ups  and  downs,  and  much  suffering  and  sorrow 
came  to  these  millions,  but  there  was  no  looking  back  for  them.  The 
conflict  continued  in  various  ways,  and,  meanwhile,  the  world  rushed 
toward  the  abyss  of  self-destruction.  India's  problem  began  to  be 
viewed  in  a  larger  perspective  and  in  relation  to  the  difficulties  that 
encompassed  the  world.  Though  our  vision  became  broader  and 
deeper,  and  though  it  tried  to  peep  into  the  future,  yet  that  problem 
remained  essentially  one  of  Indian  nationalism  versus  British  imperial 
ism.  India's  freedom  and  independence  were  the  prerequisites  for  us  in 
order  to  play  our  part  in  the  larger  world.  And,  in  that  larger  world 
also,  it  seemed  to  us  a  sham  and  a  mockery  to  talk  of  freedom  and 
democracy  and  yet  hold  on  to  imperialism. 

Fascism  and  Nazi-ism  were  anathema  to  us,  and  the  horrors  of  cen 
tral  Europe  produced  a  powerful  reaction  on  India.  Yet  we  remem 
bered  (how  can  we  ever  forget?)  the  horrors  we  had  witnessed  in 

372 


India.  Yet  we  saw  and  felt,  to  the  innermost  core  of  our  being,  the 
day-to-day  humiliation  and  exploitation  of  our  own  people.  We  were 
not  wise  or  clever  enough  to  understand  that,  though  fascism  and 
Nazi-ism  were  definitely  bad,  imperialism  was  not  so  bad  after  all. 

War  came  in  Europe,  and  we  discovered  that  India  had  also  been 
declared  a  belligerent  country,  without  so  much  as  a  formal  reference 
or  intimation  to  any  representatives  of  the  people  of  India.  The  Con 
gress  might  be  considered  an  unofficial  organization,  but  there  was  the 
Central  Assembly,  there  were  the  provincial  governments  enjoying,  it 
was  said,  provincial  autonomy.  None  of  these  was  told  or  asked  for  its 
opinion. 

The  air  resounded  with  loud  cries  invoking  freedom  and  asserting 
the  sanctity  of  democracy.  They  sounded  good.  But  we  had  heard  these 
cries  so  often  before  and  experienced  for  ourselves  the  aftermath.  We 
could  not  be  easily  swept  away ;  we  were  cautious,  doubly  so  because  of 
the  way  in  which  the  war  had  been  imposed  upon  us,  despite  our 
repeated  warnings.  Was  this  freedom  and  democracy  meant  for  us  also, 
or  only  for  the  favored  mortals  who  lived  in  Europe  and  its  extensions  ? 
Did  it  mean  that  imperialism  would  go  from  here  and  elsewhere? 

We  inquired  from  the  British  Government  and  asked  to  be  enlight 
ened,  so  that  we  might  know  what  course  we  should  pursue.  Our 
inquiries  were  considered  irrelevant  and  impertinent.  Yet  the  answers 
that  they  gave  indicated  sufficiently  clearly  that  there  was  no  intention 
and,  so  far  as  they  were  concerned,  no  possibility  of  the  ending  of  the 
imperialist  structure  in  India,  no  question  of  power  being  transferred 
to  the  people's  representatives.  The  National  Congress  had  not  asked 
anything  for  itself.  It  wanted  no  jobs  in  high  places,  which  it  could 
have  had  even  without  asking  for  them.  It  wanted  a  declaration  of 
independence  for  India  and  a  Constituent  Assembly,  elected  by  the 
people,  to  frame  the  constitution  of  a  free  India,  with  full  safeguards 
for  the  protection  of  all  minority  rights. 

In  the  mind  and  heart  of  India  there  was  a  conflict.  There  was  an 
intense  dislike  of  fascism  and  Nazi-ism  and  no  desire  to  see  them  win. 
If  India  could  but  be  convinced  that  this  war  was  being  fought  for  a 
new  world  order,  for  real  freedom,  then  indeed  India  would  throw  all 
her  weight  and  strength  into  it.  But  imperialism  and  we  were  old  ac 
quaintances,  very  old,  with  many  generations  of  contact.  We  knew 
each  other,  suspected  each  other,  and  disliked  each  other  thoroughly. 
There  was  this  background  of  one  hundred  and  eighty  years  of  hos 
tility,  of  exploitation,  of  bitterness,  of  promises  unfulfilled,  of  disrup- 

373 


tion  and  reactionary  movements  encouraged,  and  attempts  to  break  up 
the  national  unity  o£  India.  It  was  no  easy  matter  for  us  to  get  over 
these  tremendous  hurdles,  or  remove  the  complexes  that  had  grown  up. 
Yet  we  said  we  would  do  it,  but  we  could  not  even  attempt  it  unless  a 
great  psychological  shock  was  given  to  the  people,  a  pleasant  shock, 
which  would  suddenly  change  the  air  of  India  and  get  rid  of  the  fears 
and  complexes.  That  pleasant  shock  could  only  come  by  an  unequi 
vocal  declaration  of  independence  and  immediate  steps  to  give  effect  to 
the  popular  will  in  the  carrying  on  of  the  administration.  Unless  this 
was  done,  no  man  in  India,  no  group,  could  make  the  people  move  in 
the  direction  of  willing  association  with  the  war. 

Wars  today  require  mass  support,  and  even  authoritarian  countries 
have  to  whip  up  their  people  by  ceaseless  propaganda.  No  war  can  be 
fought  effectively  by  a  professional  army  in  an  atmosphere  of  public 
ill  will  or  indifference.  So  even  from  the  narrower  point  of  view  of 
organizing  India's  defense  or  India's  participation  in  the  war  effort,  a 
popular  representative  government  was  essential.  Imperialism  can 
coerce;  it  cannot  win  public  approval  and  good  will. 

The  Viceroy  and  the  British  Government  said  no  to  us,  and  our 
course  seemed  to  be  clear.  The  Congress  governments  in  the  provinces 
resigned,  and  parliamentary  government  in  these  provinces  ceased, 
because  it  was  not  prepared  to  submit  to  the  British  Government's  fiat 
against  the  wishes  of  the  people  it  represented.  It  was  the  old  conflict 
between  king  and  parliament  taking  a  new  shape;  the  Viceroy  and  the 
governors  represented  the  Bang's  veto,  our  elected  assemblies  the  will 
of  the  people.  In  America  a  proud  and  freedom-loving  people  resisted 
the  authority  of  a  distant  king  and  his  ministers  and,  after  a  long 
struggle,  established  their  own  freedom. 

But  in  India,  in  the  twentieth  century,  on  the  eve  of  the  new  order 
that  was  promised,  in  the  face  of  loud  declarations  in  favor  of  freedom 
and  democracy,  in  India,  parliamentary  government,  such  as  it  existed 
in  the  provinces,  was  suspended.  The  Viceroy's  authority  was  supreme; 
he  could  make  laws  and  unmake  them,  tax  people  and  coerce  them 
without  the  slightest  reference  to  any  representative  body. 

The  Congress  ministries  had  resigned,  it  is  true,  though  they  had  the 
great  majority  of  the  members  ©f  the  assemblies  behind  them.  They 
resigned  because  they  could  not  accept  the  Viceroy's  mandates  or  the 
British  Government's  policy.  But  the  assemblies  were  still  there.  The 
Viceroy  or  the  governors  could  have  dissolved  them  and  had  a  fresh 
election.  But  they  knew  well  that  such  an  election  would  result  in  an 

374 


overwhelming  majority  in  favor  of  the  Congress  governments  that  had 
resigned.  No  other  ministry  was  possible,  as  it  could  not  command  a 
majority.  So  the  only  course  was  for  the  provincial  assemblies  to  be 
suspended,  no  fresh  elections,  and  the  Viceroy  and  governors  to  exer 
cise  dictatorial  powers.  It  was  a  clear  case  of  conflict  between  the  people 
and  parliament  on  the  one  side  and  the  King's  representatives  on  the 
other.  One  party  had  to  be  suppressed  or  to  give  in.  Parliament  was 
suppressed.  It  was  as  if  Mr.  Neville  Chamberlain,  unable  to  carry 
Parliament  with  him,  had  advised  the  King  to  suspend  it  and  to  rule 
by  decree;  or  President  Roosevelt,  in  a  like  predicament,  had  ignored 
the  House  of  Representatives  and  the  Senate  and  constituted  himself 
the  dictator.  We  hear  a  great  deal  about  authoritarianism  and  dictators, 
and  England's  chiefs  condemn  both  in  resonant  and  forcible  language. 
Yet  in  India  today  there  is  a  full-blooded  dictatorship  and  authorita 
rianism. 

Our  course  was  clear.  Yet  we  restrained  and  held  ourselves,  even 
though  many  among  us  were  indignant  with  us,  even  though  many 
colleagues  of  ours  found  their  way  to  prisons  for  the  offense  of  explain 
ing  our  policy  to  the  people.  We  were  hesitant  because  we  hoped 
against  hope  that  England's  Government,  including  some  progressive 
and  labor  elements,  might,  in  this  hour  of  supreme  trial,  shake  itself 
out  of  its  deadening  imperialism  and  act  according  to  its  professions. 
We  had  no  desire  to  encourage  the  Nazi  rulers  in  any  way;  the 
thought  of  their  domination  over  Europe  and  elsewhere  was  a  painful 
one.  We  who  had  suffered  as  a  subject  people  knew  well  what  this 
would  mean  for  others.  We,  of  all  people,  could  not  tolerate  the  racial 
views  and  racial  oppression  of  the  Nazis.  The  horror  that  enveloped 
Holland  and  Belgium,  the  supreme  tragedy  of  France  deeply  moved 
us.  The  imminent  peril  of  England  made  us  feel  that  we  should  not 
add  to  her  difficulties  and  embarrassments.  Though  England's  ruling 
classes  may  have  treated  us  badly  and  her  imperialism  may  have 
crushed  us,  we  had  no  ill  will  for  her  people,  who  were  bravely  facing 
peril  and  extreme  danger.  We  tried  hard  to  find  a  way  out  honorable 
and  advantageous  to  both  India  and  England.  We  made  new  proposals, 
even  going  beyond  our  own  mandate  given  at  the  last  sessions  of  the 
Congress  at  Ramgarh.  We  pledged  ourselves  for  the  organization  of 
Indian  defense  and  help  in  the  war  effort.  But  we  could  only  do  so  as 
free  people,  with  the  good  will  and  co-operation  of  India's  millions. 
That  freedom  had  to  be  declared  and  a  provisional  national  govern 
ment  formed,  which  would  represent  not  one  party  only  but  various 

375 


important  elements.  The  fundamental  basis  for  this  proposal  was  the 
recognition  that  the  imperialist  structure  had  to  go. 

The  Viceroy  and  the  British  Government  have  said  a  final  no  to  us 
and  to  India.  On  the  eve  of  the  French  collapse,  Britain's  rulers  were 
unorthodox  enough  to  propose  a  union  of  England  and  France.  That 
was  an  astonishing  proposal.  It  came  too  late.  But  it  showed  that  the 
British  Government  had  got  out  of  the  rut  and  could  take  a  big  step 
if  the  situation  demanded  it.  But  where  their  own  interests  are  so 
vitally  concerned,  as  in  India,  they  still  live  in  the  rut,  and  not  all  the 
shock  of  war  and  danger  has  taken  them  out.  Even  an  obvious  advan 
tage  in  this  war  cannot  make  them  give  up  the  special  position  that 
imperialism  has  conferred  upon  them.  They  talk  complacently  still  of 
their  Empire  and  of  their  desire  to  maintain  it,  forgetting  perhaps  that 
the  word,  which  sounds  so  good  to  them,  is  a  symbol  to  us  of  our  own 
subjection,  degradation,  and  poverty. 

I  repeat  that  it  is  incorrect  to  say  that  there  is  any  new  parting  of 
the  ways,  for  our  ways  never  lay  together.  But  this  declaration  of  the 
British  Government  means  the  final  breaking  of  such  slender  bonds  as 
held  our  minds  together;  it  means  the  ending  of  all  hope  that  we  shall 
ever  march  together.  I  am  sorry,  for  in  spite  of  my  hostility  to  British 
imperialism  and  all  imperialisms,  I  have  loved  much  that  was  England, 
and  I  should  have  liked  to  keep  the  silken  bonds  of  the  spirit  between 
India  and  England.  Those  bonds  can  only  exist  in  freedom.  I  wanted 
India's  freedom  for  India's  sake,  of  course;  but  I  also  wanted  it  for 
England's  sake.  That  hope  is  shattered,  and  fate  seems  to  have  fash 
ioned  a  different  future  for  us.  The  way  of  co-operation  does  not  lie 
for  us;  the  hundred-year-old  hostility  will  remain  and  grow  in  future 
conflicts,  and  the  breach,  when  it  comes,  as  come  it  must,  will  also  not 
be  in  friendship  but  in  hostility. 

I  am  told  that  the  British  Government  has  been  led  to  believe  that 
we  shall  tamely  submit  to  their  decrees  because  so  far  we  have  been 
quiescent.  Our  very  restraint  appears  to  have  made  them  think  that  we 
were  incapable  of  any  action.  In  this  world  of  force,  of  bombing  air 
planes,  tanks,  and  armed  men,  how  weak  we  are!  Why  trouble  about 
us  ?  But  perhaps,  even  in  this  world  of  armed  conflict,  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  the  spirit  of  man,  and  the  spirit  of  a  nation,  which  is  neither 
ignoble  nor  weak,  and  which  may  not  be  ignored,  save  at  peril. 

To  those  of  us  who  are  intimately  connected  with  Indian  politics, 
the  British  Government's  reply  needs  no  analysis  or  clarification.  To  do 
them  justice,  it  is  clear  enough,  and  there  is  no  ambiguity.  Yet  others 

376 


perhaps  might  miss  its  significance  and  be  misled  by  the  use  of  re 
sounding  words  into  thinking  that  something  worth  while  was  offered, 
that  the  people  of  India  were  getting  some  power  in  her  government. 

It  is  proposed  to  appoint  some  nonofficial  Indians  to  the  Viceroy's 
Executive  Council.  This  Council  is  no  real  Executive  or  Cabinet;  it  is 
more  advisory.  Real  power  rests  with  the  Viceroy,  who  does  not  always 
take  members  of  his  Council  into  his  confidence.  They  are  heads  of 
departments,  advising  the  Viceroy  about  their  special  subjects.  All 
policy  emanates  from  the  Viceroy.  In  fact,  his  is  the  responsibility,  and 
he  is  answerable  to  the  Secretary  of  State  for  India  in  the  British 
Parliament.  If  this  legal,  constitutional,  and  conventional  structure 
remains,  it  makes  little  difference  who  or  how  many  people  are  added 
to  the  Council.  They  do  not  make  an  atom  of  difference  to  the  Vice 
roy's  position,  power,  or  authority,  except  in  so  far  as  they  might  try  to 
influence  him  by  their  powers  of  persuasion. 

Apart  from  this,  the  addition  of  a  few  nonofficials  to  the  Executive 
Council  does  not  make  an  essential  difference  to  it;  the  majority  con 
tinues  to  be  of  the  nominated  official  and  service  members,  who  may 
have  their  virtues  (which  are  not  very  obvious)  but  who  represent  the 
hundred  per  cent  imperialistic  bureaucratic  type.  They  are  completely 
dependent  on  the  Viceroy  for  their  position  and  are  obsequious  to  him. 
They  are  wholly  cut  off  from  the  life,  thought,  and  activities  of  the 
people,  and  live  in  an  official  world  of  their  own.  Such  efficiency  as 
they  have  consists  in  running  the  old  type  of  police  state.  They  are 
remote  from  the  modern  world  and  its  problems  and  do  not  under 
stand  them.  They  belong  to  an  order  which  has  passed  elsewhere  and 
which  must  pass  in  India. 

Then  again  the  so-called  "representative  Indians"  who  may  be 
appointed  to  the  Viceroy's  Executive  Council  will  be  chosen  presum 
ably  from  all  manner  of  odd  groups,  some  completely  reactionary.  All 
of  them  will  not  even  represent  the  progressive  elements  in  India,  and 
in  the  Council  they  will  either  neutralize  each  other  or  make  matters 
worse.  They  will  not  be  elected  by  the  people  in  any  way  and  will  not 
be  responsible  to  them.  They  will  be  chosen  by  the  Viceroy  in  their 
individual  capacity. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  addition  of  these  few  odd  Indians  to  the  Vice 
roy's  Executive  Council  means  less  than  nothing  from  any  national 
point  of  view,  or  from  the  viewpoint  of  any  power  being  transferred 
to  the  people. 
The  second  proposal  is  the  creation  of  a  War  Advisory  Council  com- 

377 


posed  of  an  odd  assortment  of  people,  including  some  representatives 
of  the  semifeudal  Indian  states.  This  will  meet  from  time  to  time, 
apparently  to  listen  to  good  advice  and  to  act  as  recruiting  sergeants 
and  the  like.  They  will  have  no  executive  power  of  any  kind  or  indeed 
any  other  power.  It  will  be  just  a  show  body  of  no  relevance  or 
importance. 

These  are  the  two  proposals  for  the  present,  and,  as  the  Viceroy  has 
made  perfectly  clear,  the  British  Government  do  not  contemplate  the 
transfer  of  any  power  or  responsibility  that  they  possess.  Further,  it  has 
been  stated  by  the  Secretary  of  State  for  India  that  when  he  refers  to 
"the  principal  elements  in  India's  national  life,"  he  includes  the 
European  vested  interests  in  India.  Probably  the  conception  of  India's 
national  life  that  Mr.  Amery  and  the  Viceroy  cherish  is  one  which  con 
sists  chiefly  of  British  vested  interests,  Indian  feudal  princes,  big  land 
lords,  communalists,  and  other  reactionaries.  According  to  them,  these 
national  interests  form  the  warp  and  woof  of  our  national  life  and 
deserve  protection  and  representation.  The  three  or  four  hundred- 
odd  millions  of  people  who  live  and  labor  and  often  starve  are  an 
excrescence. 

So  much  for  the  present  and  so  long  as  the  war  lasts.  The  golden 
future  of  our  dreams,  that  new  order  of  freedom  of  which  we  hear  so 
much,  is  envisaged  as  follows:  After  the  conclusion  of  the  war,  "a 
body  representative  of  the  principal  elements  in  India's  national  life" 
will  be  set  up  to  devise  the  framework  of  the  new  constitution.  We 
have  seen  what,  in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Amery  and  the  Viceroy,  these 
elements  in  India's  national  life  are.  We  shall  have  (or  so  it  is  pro 
posed,  but  destiny  may  dispose  otherwise)  a  noble  company  of  be- 
jeweled  maharajahs,  belted  knights,  European  industrial  and  commer 
cial  magnates,  big  landlords  and  talukdars,  Indian  industrialists,  repre 
sentatives  of  the  imperial  services,  and  a  few  commoner  mortals,  all 
sitting  together,  possibly  under  the  presidency  of  the  Viceroy  himself, 
drawing  up  India's  constitution.  Thus  will  India  exercise  her  right  to 
self-determination.  It  will  be  a  pretty  pattern  that  this  assembly  will 
produce,  with  a  flower  for  every  vested  interest  and  feudal  relic  and 
with  the  background  of  British  imperialism.  Above  all,  British  inter 
ests,  which  are  so  important  a  part  of  India's  national  life,  will  have 
been  preserved  and  given  their  rightful  due.  We  shall  call  this  Domin 
ion  status  so  that  everyone  may  be  pleased. 

But  let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  even  this  assembly  cannot  have  it  all 

378 


its  own  way.  The  British  Government  cannot  divest  themselves  of 
their  high  responsibility  to  protect  British  vested  interests  whatever 
happens.  So  whatever  this  assembly  decides  must  be  "subject  to  the  due 
fulfillment  of  the  obligations  which  Great  Britain's  long  connection 
with  India  has  imposed  upon  her  and  for  which  His  Majesty's  Gov 
ernment  cannot  divest  themselves  of  responsibility." 

Meanwhile,  it  is  suggested  that  the  Government  will  welcome  every 
sincere  and  practical  step  taken  by  representative  Indians  to  reach  a 
basis  of  friendly  agreement  on  the  form  that  the  postwar  representative 
body  should  take  and  the  principles  and  outlines  of  the  constitution. 
These  representative  Indians  must,  of  course,  come  from  the  principal 
elements  of  India's  national  life  as  outlined  above. 

If  some  of  us  in  the  outer  darkness  do  not  approve  of  this  pattern  or 
fancy  this  picture,  it  is  no  doubt  our  misfortune.  If  we  wonder  some 
times  how  any  British  Government  can  presume  to  make  this  offer  to 
the  Indian  people  in  this  age  of  change  and  revolution,  when  empires 
are  disappearing  and  the  old  structure  collapses  all  over  the  world,  it 
must  indicate  how  simple  and  naive  we  are.  We  ought  to  have  known 
that  imperialisms  do  not  abdicate;  they  hold  on  even  when  it  is  mani 
fest  folly  to  endeavor  to  do  so.  But  in  our  simplicity  we  cannot  help 
feeling  a  mild  surprise  at  the  fact  that  leaders  of  the  British  Labour 
party,  those  champions  of  freedom  and  socialism,  should  be  respon 
sible  for  this  "offer"  to  India.  But  it  is  no  offer.  It  is  a  decision  an 
nounced  and  going  to  be  imposed  upon  us  whether  we  like  it  or  not. 
The  Congress  had  ventured  to  suggest  another  way — that  the  con 
stitution  should  be  framed  by  a  Constituent  Assembly  elected  by  adult 
franchise  by  the  people.  This  had  the  misfortune  of  being  a  democratic 
way  and  of  giving  an  equal  importance  to  each  individual.  It  is  true 
that  "the  principal  elements  of  India's  national  life,"  as  conceived  by 
the  Viceroy  and  the  Secretary  of  State,  might  have  found  some  diffi 
culty  in  getting  elected.  Democratic  elections  are  not  always  just  to 
these  important  elements,  like  those  representing  British  or  Indian 
vested  interests. 

The  Viceroy  has  further  stated  that:  "It  goes  without  saying  that 
they  [the  British  Government]  could  not  contemplate  the  transfer  of 
their  present  responsibilities  for  the  peace  and  welfare  of  India  to  any 
system  of  government  whose  authority  is  directly  denied  by  large  and 
powerful  elements  in  India's  national  life.  Nor  could  they  be  parties  to 
the  coercion  of  such  elements  into  submission  to  such  a  government." 
This  statement  is  worthy  of  close  consideration.  It  is  obvious  that 

379 


any  system  of  government  that  might  be  proposed  for  India  will  find 
many  odd  groups  and  interests  opposed  to  it.  No  system  can  possibly 
be  devised  which  meets  with  unanimity  from  all  these  groups  and  inter 
ests  and  from  the  four  hundred  millions  of  India.  Every  agrarian  legis 
lation  has  to  deal  with  the  inherent  conflicts  between  the  landlord  and 
the  tenant;  every  labor  legislation  is  looked  upon  with  disfavor  by  the 
captains  of  industry.  Even  among  industrialists  in  India,  there  is  a 
continuing  conflict  between  British  vested  interests  and  the  rising 
Indian  industry,  which  has  been  deliberately  prevented  from  expand 
ing  so  that  the  former  might  not  suffer.  So  the  conflicts  of  interests  run 
through  the  whole  of  national  life  as  it  is  constituted  today,  because 
there  are  different  classes  with  conflicting  interests.  Some  of  us  would 
like  to  have  a  classless  society,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  will  ulti 
mately  come.  Meanwhile  the  only  known  method  of  resolving  these 
conflicts,  other  than  that  of  force  and  coercion,  is  the  democratic 
method.  If  any  group  can  hold  up  a  political  or  economic  change,  even 
though  this  is  desired  by  the  great  majority,  this  must  lead  to  a  dis 
ruption  of  the  State  and  possibly  to  civil  conflict. 

The  British  Government's  statement  means  that  there  can  be  no 
far-reaching  political  or  economic  changes,  for  some  group  is  bound  to 
object  to  them.  Even  if  no  Indian  group  objects,  British  vested  inter 
ests  will  do  so.  But  there  are  Indian  reactionary  groups  that  will  play 
that  role.  This  means  that  the  status  quo  will  largely  remain  to  the 
great  advantage  of  British  imperialism.  This  is  the  way  to  perpetuate 
the  present  order,  to  make  India  safe  for  British  vested  interests. 

The  idea  that  the  British  Government  should  be  asked  to  coerce  any 
group  is  absurd.  No  one  has  ever  hinted  at  this,  except  the  reaction 
aries  and  communalists  who  want  the  coercion  of  the  progressive  ele 
ments.  The  British  Government  are  asked  to  put  an  end  to  all  their 
present  coercion;  in  fact,  to  retire  from  the  Indian  scene  as  a  govern 
ment.  Only  then  will  conditions  be  produced  in  India  which  will 
induce  various  elements  in  India  to  seek  a  basis  of  agreement  among 
themselves,  for  the  alternative  is  civil  war.  So  long  as  the  British  Gov 
ernment  remains,  it  plays  off  one  against  the  other  and  produces  an 
unhealthy  desire  in  the  minds  of  some  to  seek  its  favor  as  against  their 
own  compatriots. 

The  British  Government  say  they  will  not  coerce  an  important  group 
to  impose  a  system  of  government  which  this  does  not  like.  The  alter 
native  surely  is  that  they  will  coerce  other  groups  who  want  that  par 
ticular  system  of  government.  What  exactly  has  the  function  of  the 

380 


British  Government  been,  and  is  today,  in  India?  It  is  to  coerce  the 
Indian  people  as  a  whole,  every  group,  in  order  to  maintain  their  own 
hold  and  special  position.  It  is  to  suppress  Indian  industry  in  favor  of 
British  industry  in  India.  It  is  to  maintain  an  army  of  occupation 
whose  chief  function  is  to  coerce  the  Indian  people.  It  is  to  uphold 
Indian  princes  by  coercing  their  subjects  into  submission.  It  is  strange 
to  be  told  that  the  British  Government  do  not  want  to  use  coercion. 
What  else  do  they  use  in  India? 

Again,  how  is  one  to  tell  that  an  important  group  does  not  want  a 
particular  system  of  government?  Ordinarily  that  group  votes,  and 
other  groups  vote,  and  then  it  is  possible  to  know  what  the  feelings  or 
intentions  o£  various  groups  are.  They  come  to  a  mutual  arrangement, 
trying  to  find  some  common  measure  of  agreement,  or,  unhappily, 
they  do  not,  and  there  is  conflict. 

The  British  proposal  is  ideally  suited  to  prevent  any  progress  or 
major  change.  Even  British  interests  will  bar  the  way.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  the  Government  have  gone  further  and  stated  that  in  any  event 
they  are  not  going  to  divest  themselves  of  responsibility  for  the  protec 
tion  of  these  interests.  Whatever  happens,  these  interests  remain;  and 
so,  whatever  happens,  the  British  financial  and  industrial  structure 
dominates  India.  It  so  happens  that  this  is  exactly  what  we  want  to  get 
rid  of.  There  is  no  progress  or  lessening  of  India's  appalling  poverty 
till  we  succeed  in  this.  All  else  is  secondary. 

We  have  an  intimate  glimpse  from  the  Viceroy's  statement  of  the 
blessings  of  Dominion  status  that  is  held  out  to  us  as  a  lure.  Many  of 
us,  I  fear,  are  not  attracted  by  this  picture. 

It  may  be  said  that  the  Viceroy's  statement  about  not  coercing  any 
large  element  which  disapproves  of  a  system  of  government  applies 
chiefly  to  the  religious  minorities.  Certainly  let  us  agree  that  there  must 
be  no  such  coercion,  and  the  British  Government  must  on  no  account 
do  it.  Nor  should  others.  But  where  does  coercion  come  in?  Who  sug 
gests  it? 

The  Congress  proposal  was  not  that  the  Congress  or  any  party  or 
religious  groups  should  be  given  power.  It  asked  for  power  for  the 
Indian  people  as  a  whole  and  wanted  the  Indian  people  to  decide  what 
they  wanted  in  a  democratic  manner.  It  went  further,  in  its  desire  to 
protect  all  minority  interests.  It  agreed  to  separate  electorates  for  such 
minorities  as  desired  it  and  laid  down  that  matters  relating  to  minority 
rights  must  not  be  settled  by  a  majority  vote.  They  must  be  settled 
by  agreement  or,  if  unhappily  this  is  not  possible  in  regard  to  any  par- 

381 


ticular  matter,  through  an  impartial  tribunal.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive 
any  more  comprehensive  or  effective  method  for  minority  protection, 
short  of  throwing  overboard  all  pretense  at  democracy  and  establishing 
a  dictatorship  of  the  minority. 

So  far  as  the  Moslems  in  India  are  concerned,  they  are  only  tech 
nically  a  minority.  They  are  vast  in  numbers  and  powerful  in  other 
ways,  and  it  is  patent  that  they  cannot  be  coerced  against  their  will. 
Just  as  the  Hindus  cannot  be  coerced  against  their  will.  If  the  two  can 
not  agree  as  organized  groups,  it  will  be  unfortunate  for  India,  and  no 
one  can  say  what  the  consequence  will  be.  But  let  us  always  remember 
that  in  political  and  economic  matters  people  do  not  function  as  reli 
gious  groups.  The  lines  of  cleavage  are  different. 

The  real  question  of  minority  protection  arises  for  others,  who  are 
neither  Hindu  nor  Moslem.  It  seems  amazing  to  me  that  any  Indian, 
whether  he  is  a  Hindu,  Moslem,  Sikh,  Christian,  or  adherent  of  any 
other  faith,  should  seek  protection  against  his  own  compatriots  from  a 
foreign  authority.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they  do  not,  except  a  few,  who 
do  it  not  because  of  religion  but  because  of  vested  interests. 

Let  us  be  clear  about  it.  This  communal  question  is  essentially  one 
of  protection  of  vested  interests,  and  religion  has  always  been  a  useful 
stalking  horse  for  this  purpose.  Those  who  have  feudal  privileges  and 
vested  interests  fear  change  and  become  the  camp  followers  of  British 
imperialism.  The  British  Government,  on  the  other  hand  delight  in 
using  the  communal  argument  to  deny  freedom,  democracy,  or  any 
major  change,  and  to  hold  on  to  power  and  privilege  in  India.  That 
is  the  raison  d'etre  and  the  justification  of  communalism  in  India.  If, 
as  has  been  said,  the  Indian  princes  may  be  described  as  Britain's  Fifth 
Column  in  India,  communalism  and  its  champions  might  well  be  in 
cluded  in  this  Fifth  Column.  It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  com- 
munalists  and  princes  get  on  well  together  and  co-operate  with  each 
other.  They  have  a  common  purpose  to  serve — to  obstruct  India's  free 
dom  so  that  vested  interests  might  flourish. 

It  is  not,  of  course,  enough  to  dispose  of  communalism  by  this  simple 
analysis,  although  this  is  the  basic  explanation.  There  are  so  many 
other  factors,  and  it  is  perfectly  true  that  mass  elements,  who  may  be 
affected  by  communalism,  have  neither  vested  interests  to  preserve  nor 
any  love  for  British  imperialism.  To  understand  how  they  have  been 
influenced  by  communalism,  and  have  often  acted  against  their  own 
interests,  is  to  understand  how  Hitler  came  to  influence  mass  elements 
among  the  German  people.  The  analogy  is  not  complete,  but  it  helps. 

382 


People  are  swept  away  by  slogans  which  appeal  to  them,  and  then  they 
are  used  for  entirely  different  purposes.  There  has  been  a  strange  sim 
ilarity  in  the  recent  development  of  the  communal  technique  in  India 
to  Nazi  methods. 

Communalism  began  in  India  as  a  demand  for  a  specified  share  in 
services  and  in  representation  in  the  legislatures.  It  has  now  developed 
into  an  openly  antinational,  antidemocratic  movement,  hinting  at  the 
partition  of  India.  For  a  long  while  it  had  no  constructive  or  any  other 
program.  It  lived  on  invective,  violence,  and  general  offensiveness.  It  is 
amazing  how  it  vulgarized  our  public  life.  It  discovered  that  what  it 
had  valued  most  in  the  past — separate  electorates — brought  little  good. 
In  fact,  they  weakened  a  minority  group.  Then,  by  the  very  force  of  the 
logic  of  hatred  and  separation  that  it  had  pursued,  it  had  to  go  to  the 
extreme  of  demanding  a  partition  of  India.  The  medieval  theory  of 
religious  groups  constituting  a  political  community,  which  collapsed 
before  an  advancing  nationalism  in  Europe,  was  revived.  An  idea 
similar  to  that  of  the  Crusades,  of  Christendom  versus  Islam,  sud 
denly  appeared  (it  is  said  with  British  inspiration)  in  India.  It  was  an 
astonishing  throwback.  Whoever  else  benefited  or  suffered  from  it,  it 
was  clear  that  British  imperialism  was  the  gainer. 

It  is  curious  that  even  in  early  and  medieval  India,  this  theory  never 
functioned  in  the  Western  way.  Other  religions  were  welcomed  and 
accommodated.  The  early  Christians  came  in  the  first  century  and 
found  a  home.  Jews  were  accommodated,  Moslems  were  welcome  to 
spread  their  religion  and  settle  down  (till  invasion  brought  political 
conflicts),  Parsis  came  and  were  absorbed.  Later  Moslem  rulers  thought 
in  terms  of  building  up  a  single  nation  of  the  Moslem  newcomers  and 
the  Hindus  and  others.  The  great  Akbar  laid  the  foundations  for  this. 
The  new  cultural  elements  were  absorbed,  and  a  common  culture 
gradually  developed,  especially  in  northern  India. 

And  now  we  are  told  to  go  back  to  the  pre-Akbar  days,  to  reverse 
the  process  of  history,  to  think  in  terms  of  medievalism.  When  nation 
alism  is  giving  place  to  internationalism,  an  even  narrower  creed  than 
nationalism  is  advanced,  and  this  finds  favor  and  protection  with  our 
British  rulers.  When  the  world  is  groping  blindly  toward  a  real  federa 
tion  of  nations,  it  is  suggested  that  India  should  be  split  up  into 
various  parts. 

Moslem  countries — Turkey,  Egypt,  Iraq,  Syria,  Persia — have  long 
discarded  this  medieval  theory.  They  are  intensely  nationalist  and  are 
proud  of  their  ancient  culture.  Some  of  them  deliberately  go  to  their 

3% 


pre-Islamic  days  to  find  cultural  inspiration.  The  Chinese  Moslems  are 
proud  of  their  Chinese  culture  and  fight  for  China's  freedom.  That  is 
the  course  of  history.  Indeed,  it  is  a  course  that  has  already  been  run, 
and  the  mighty  revolution  that  is  taking  place  in  the  world  today  will 
lay  down  another  course — the  way  to  world  federation  based  on 
national  freedom  and  a  juster  economic  system.  Privilege  and  vested 
interest  will  have  to  go. 

That  is  the  goal  of  India — a  united,  free,  democratic  country,  closely 
associated  in  a  world  federation  with  other  free  nations.  We  want 
independence,  but  not  the  old  type  of  narrow,  exclusive  independence. 
We  believe  that  the  day  of  separate  warring  national  states  is  over. 

We  want  independence  and  not  Dominion  or  any  other  status. 
Every  thinking  person  knows  that  the  whole  conception  of  Dominion 
status  belongs  to  past  history;  it  has  no  future.  It  cannot  survive  this 
war,  whatever  the  result  of  the  war.  But,  whether  it  survives  or  not, 
we  want  none  of  it.  We  do  not  want  to  be  bound  down  to  a  group  of 
nations  which  has  dominated  and  exploited  over  us;  we  will  not  be  in 
an  Empire  in  some  parts  of  which  we  are  treated  as  helots  and  where 
racialism  runs  riot.  We  want  to  cut  adrift  from  the  financial  domina 
tion  of  the  City  of  London.  We  want  to  be  completely  free  with  no 
reservations  or  exceptions,  except  such  as  we  ourselves  approve,  in 
common  with  others,  in  order  to  join  a  Federation  of  Nations,  or  a 
new  World  Order.  If  this  new  World  Order  or  Federation  does  not 
come  in  the  near  future,  we  should  like  to  be  closely  associated  in  a 
federation  with  our  neighbors — China,  Burma,  Ceylon,  Afghanistan, 
Persia.  We  are  prepared  to  take  risks  and  face  dangers.  We  do  not 
want  the  so-called  protection  of  the  British  Army  or  Navy.  We  shall 
shift  for  ourselves. 

If  the  past  had  not  been  there  to  bear  witness,  the  present  would 
have  made  us  come  to  this  final  decision.  For  even  in  this  present  of 
war  and  peril,  there  is  no  change  in  the  manner  of  treatment  accorded 
to  our  people  by  British  imperialism.  Let  those  who  seek  the  favor  and 
protection  of  this  imperialism  go  its  way.  We  go  ours.  The  parting  of 
the  ways  has  come. 

JAWAHARLAL  NEHRU 
Allahabad,  August  iof  1940. 


384 


APPENDIX  A 

PLEDGE  TAKEN  BY  THE  INDIAN  NATIONAL  CONGRESS  ON 
INDEPENDENCE  DAY,  JANUARY  26,  1930 

WE  BELIEVE  THAT  it  is  the  inalienable  right  of  the  Indian  people,  as  of 
any  other  people,  to  have  freedom  and  to  enjoy  the  fruits  of  their  toil 
and  have  the  necessities  of  life,  so  that  they  may  have  full  opportu 
nities  of  growth.  We  believe  also  that  if  any  government  deprives  a 
people  of  these  rights  and  oppresses  them  the  people  have  a  further 
right  to  alter  it  or  to  abolish  it.  The  British  Government  in  India  has 
not  only  deprived  the  Indian  people  of  their  freedom  but  has  based  itself 
on  the  exploitation  of  the  masses,  and  has  ruined  India  economically, 
politically,  culturally,  and  spiritually.  We  believe,  therefore,  that  India 
must  sever  the  British  connection  and  attain  Purna  Swaraj,  or  complete 
independence. 

India  has  been  ruined  economically.  The  revenue  derived  from  our 
people  is  out  of  all  proportion  to  our  income.  Our  average  income  is 
seven  pice  (less  than  twopence)  per  day,  and  of  the  heavy  taxes  we  pay, 
20  per  cent  are  raised  from  the  land  revenue  derived  from  the  peas 
antry  and  3  per  cent  from  the  salt  tax,  which  falls  most  heavily  on  the 
poor. 

Village  industries,  such  as  hand-spinning,  have  been  destroyed,  leav 
ing  the  peasantry  idle  for  at  least  four  months  in  the  year,  and  dulling 
their  intellect  for  want  of  handicrafts,  and  nothing  has  been  substi 
tuted,  as  in  other  countries,  for  the  crafts  thus  destroyed. 

Customs  and  currency  have  been  so  manipulated  as  to  heap  further 
burdens  on  the  peasantry.  British  manufactured  goods  constitute  the 
bulk  of  our  imports.  Customs  duties  betray  clear  partiality  for  British 
manufactures,  and  revenue  from  them  is  used  not  to  lessen  the  bur 
den  on  the  masses  but  for  sustaining  a  highly  extravagant  administra 
tion.  Still  more  arbitrary  has  been  the  manipulation  of  the  exchange 
ratio,  which  has  resulted  in  millions  being  drained  away  from  the 
country. 

Politically,  India's  status  has  never  been  so  reduced  as  under  the 
British  regime.  No  reforms  have  given  real  political  power  to  the 
people.  The  tallest  of  us  have  to  bend  before  foreign  authority.  The 
rights  of  free  expression  of  opinion  and  free  association  have  been  de 
nied  to  us,  and  many  of  our  countrymen  are  compelled  to  live  in  exile 
abroad  and  cannot  return  to  their  homes.  All  administrative  talent  is 

385 


killed,  and  the  masses  have  to  be  satisfied  with  petty  village  offices  and 
clerkships. 

Culturally,  the  system  o£  education  has  torn  us  from  our  moorings, 
and  our  training  has  made  us  hug  the  very  chains  that  bind  us. 

Spiritually,  compulsory  disarmament  has  made  us  unmanly,  and  the 
presence  of  an  alien  army  of  occupation,  employed  with  deadly  effect 
to  crush  in  us  the  spirit  of  resistance,  has  made  us  think  that  we  can 
not  look  after  ourselves  or  put  up  a  defense  against  foreign  aggression, 
or  even  defend  our  homes  and  families  from  the  attacks  of  thieves,  rob 
bers,  and  miscreants. 

We  hold  it  to  be  a  crime  against  man  and  God  to  submit  any  longer 
to  a  rule  that  has  caused  this  fourfold  disaster  to  our  country.  We 
recognize,  however,  that  the  most  effective  way  of  gaining  our  free 
dom  is  not  through  violence.  We  will  therefore  prepare  ourselves  by 
withdrawing,  so  far  as  we  can,  all  voluntary  association  from  the  Brit 
ish  Government,  and  will  prepare  for  civil  disobedience,  including 
nonpayment  of  taxes.  We  are  convinced  that  if  we  can  but  withdraw 
our  voluntary  help  and  stop  payment  of  taxes  without  doing  violence, 
even  under  provocation,  the  end  of  this  inhuman  rule  is  assured.  We 
therefore  hereby  solemnly  resolve  to  carry  out  the  Congress  instruc 
tions  issued  from  time  to  time  for  the  purpose  of  establishing  Purna 
Su/araj. 

APPENDIX  B 

PRESIDENTIAL  ADDRESS  BY  JAWAHARLAL  NEHRU  AT  49TH  SESSION  OF 
INDIAN  NATIONAL  CONGRESS,  AT  LUCK.NOW,  APRIL  1936 

COMRADES, 

After  many  years  I  face  you  again  from  this  tribune — many  weary 
years  of  strife  and  turmoil  and  common  suffering.  It  is  good  for  us  to 
meet  again;  it  is  good  for  me  to  see  this  great  host  of  old  comrades 
and  friends,  linked  together  by  strong  bonds  that  cannot  break,  to 
sense  the  old  brave  spirit  yet  again,  to  feel  your  overwhelming  kind 
ness  and  good  will  to  one  whose  greatest  privilege  it  is  to  have  been 
a  comrade  and  a  soldier  with  all  of  you  in  a  mighty  struggle  for  free 
dom.  I  am  heartened  and  strengthened  by  you,  though  even  in  this 
great  gathering  I  feel  a  little  lonely.  Many  a  dear  comrade  and  friend 
has  left  us,  worn  out,  long  before  the  normal  length  of  our  earthly 
days,  by  the  stress  and  strain  of  conflict.  One  by  one  they  go,  leaving 

386 


a  void  in  our  hearts  and  a  dull  misery  in  our  minds.  They  find  peace 
from  this  turmoil  perhaps,  and  it  is  well,  for  they  deserved  it.  They 
rest  after  their  labors. 

But  what  of  us  who  remain  behind  with  a  heavier  burden  to  carry? 
There  is  no  rest  for  us  or  for  those  who  languish  in  prison  or  in  de 
tention  camp.  We  cannot  rest,  for  rest  is  betrayal  of  those  who  have 
gone  and  in  going  handed  the  torch  of  freedom  to  us  to  keep  alight; 
it  is  betrayal  of  the  cause  we  have  espoused  and  the  pledge  we  have 
taken;  it  is  betrayal  of  the  millions  who  never  rest. 

I  am  weary  and  I  have  come  back  like  a  tired  child  yearning  for 
solace  in  the  bosom  of  our  common  mother,  India.  That  solace  has 
come  to  me  in  overflowing  measure;  thousands  of  hands  have  been 
stretched  out  to  me  in  love  and  sympathy;  millions  of  silent  voices 
have  carried  their  message  of  affection  to  my  heart.  How  can  I  thank 
you,  men  and  women  of  India?  How  can  I  express  in  words  feelings 
that  are  too  deep  for  utterance? 

For  many  years  now  I  have  been  a  distant  looker-on  on  this  Indian 
scene  where  once  I  was  an  actor,  and  many  a  thing  has  happened  that 
has  filled  me  with  distress  and  anguish.  I  do  not  wish  to  survey  this 
recent  past  of  ours,  which  must  be  fresh  in  your  memory,  and  which 
has  left  a  sorry  trail  behind  and  many  knots  which  are  difficult  to  un 
ravel.  But  we  may  not  ignore  it,  for  out  of  that  past  as  well  as  the 
present,  we  have  to  build  our  future.  We  have  followed  high  ideals, 
and  we  have  taken  pride  in  the  fact  that  our  means  are  worthy  of  those 
ideals.  We  have  been  witnesses  of  many  a  miracle  in  this  old  and  bat 
tered  land  of  ours,  and  yet  our  very  success  has  been  followed  by  fail 
ure  and  disillusion.  Temporary  failure  has  little  significance  when  the 
aim  is  high  and  the  struggle  bound  to  be  a  long  one;  it  is  but  the  in 
centive  to  further  effort.  Often  it  teaches  us  more  than  a  victory  easily 
won  and  becomes  a  prelude  to  a  greater  success.  But  we  profit  by  it 
only  i£  we  learn  its  lesson  and  search  our  minds  for  an  explanation  of 
that  failure.  Only  by  constant  self -questioning,  individual  and  national, 
can  we  keep  on  the  right  path.  An  easy  and  unthinking  confidence  is 
almost  as  bad  as  a  weak  submission  to  helpless  dejection.  Real  failure 
comes  only  when  we  forget  our  ideals  and  objectives  and  principles 
and  begin  to  wander  away  from  the  road  which  leads  to  their  real 
ization. 

In  this  crisis  of  our  history,  therefore,  let  us  look  into  ourselves  and 
examine,  without  pity  or  prejudice,  what  we  have  done  and  what 
others  have  done  to  us,  and  seek  to  find  out  where  we  stand  today.  We 

387 


dare  not  delude  ourselves  or  evade  real  issues  for  fear  of  offending 
others,  even  though  some  of  these  others  are  comrades  whom  we  re 
spect.  That  is  the  way  of  self-deception  which  none  who  seek  great 
and  vital  changes  can  follow  except  at  their  peril. 

Sixteen  years  ago,  under  the  inspiration  of  our  leader,  we  took  a  new 
and  long  step  converting  this  Congress  from  an  ineffective  body,  feebly 
functioning  among  the  upper  classes,  into  a  powerful  democratic  or 
ganization  with  its  roots  in  the  Indian  soil  and  the  vast  masses  who 
live  on  it.  A  handful  of  our  old  friends,  representing  an  age  and  a 
class  which  had  had  its  day,  left  us,  fearful  of  this  democratic  upsurge, 
and  preferring  the  shelter  and  protection  of  British  imperialism  to 
joining  hands  with  the  new  vital  forces  which  convulsed  the  country 
and  struggled  for  freedom.  Historically,  they  lapsed  into  the  past.  But 
we  heard  the  rumbling  of  those  forces  and,  for  the  moment,  lined  up 
with  them  and  played  a  not  unworthy  part  in  current  history.  We 
sensed  the  new  spirit  of  mass  release,  of  psychological  escape  from  the 
cramping  effects  of  long  subjection;  we  gloried  in  the  breaking  of  the 
mental  bonds  that  encompassed  us.  And,  because  our  minds  became 
free,  we  felt  that  political  freedom  could  not  be  far,  for  it  is  often 
harder  to  break  the  bonds  of  the  spirit  than  physical  bonds  and  chains 
of  iron  and  steel.  We  represented  the  Spirit  of  the  Age  and  were 
marching  step  by  step  with  countless  others  in  our  country  and  out 
side.  The  exhilaration  of  being  in  tune  with  the  masses  and  with  the 
world  forces  came  upon  us  and  the  feeling  that  we  were  the  agents 
of  historic  destiny. 

We  were  engrossed  in  our  national  struggle,  and  the  turn  it  took 
bore  the  powerful  impress  of  our  great  leader  and  of  our  national 
genius.  We  were  hardly  conscious  then  of  what  was  happening  out 
side.  And  yet  our  struggle  was  but  part  o£  a  far  wider  struggle  for 
freedom,  and  the  forces  that  moved  us  were  moving  millions  of  people 
all  over  the  world  and  driving  them  into  action.  All  Asia  was  astir 
from  the  Mediterranean  to  the  Far  East,  from  the  Islamic  West  to  the 
Buddhist  East;  Africa  responded  to  the  new  spirit;  Europe,  broken  up 
by  the  war,  was  struggling  to  find  a  new  equilibrium.  And  right  across 
a  vast  area  in  Europe  and  Asia,  in  the  Soviet  territories,  a  new 
conception  of  human  freedom  and  social  equality  fought  desperately 
against  a  host  of  enemies.  There  were  great  differences  in  the  many 
aspects  of  this  freedom  struggle  all  over  the  world,  and  we  were  mis 
led  by  them  and  did  not  see  the  common  background.  Yet,  if  we  are 
to  understand  these  varied  phenomena  and  derive  a  lesson  from  them 

388 


for  our  own  national  struggle,  we  must  try  to  see  and  understand  the 
whole  picture,  And,  i£  we  do  so,  we  cannot  fail  to  observe  an  organic 
connection  between  them  which  endures  through  changing  situations. 
If  once  we  grasp  this  organic  bond,  the  world  situation  becomes  easier 
to  understand,  and  our  own  national  problems  take  their  proper  places 
in  the  wider  picture.  We  realize  then  that  we  cannot  isolate  India  or 
the  Indian  problem  from  that  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  To  do  so  is  to 
ignore  the  real  forces  that  are  shaping  events  and  to  cut  ourselves 
adrift  from  the  vital  energy  that  flows  from  them.  To  do  so,  again,  is 
to  fail  to  understand  the  significance  of  our  own  problems,  and,  if  we 
do  not  understand  this,  how  can  we  solve  them?  We  are  apt  to  lose 
ourselves,  as  we  have  indeed  done,  in  petty  conflicts  and  minor  ques 
tions,  like  the  communal  problem,  and  forget  the  major  issues;  we  are 
apt  to  waste  our  energy  (like  our  moderate  friends  do)  in  interminable 
discussions  over  legal  quibbles  and  constitutional  questions. 

During  the  troubled  aftermath  of  the  Great  War  came  revolution 
ary  changes  in  Europe  and  Asia,  and  the  intensification  of  the  struggle 
for  social  freedom  in  Europe,  and  a  new  aggressive  nationalism  in  the 
countries  of  Asia.  There  were  ups  and  downs,  and  sometimes  it  ap 
peared  as  if  the  revolutionary  urge  had  exhausted  itself  and  things 
were  settling  down.  But  economic  and  political  conditions  were  such 
that  there  could  be  no  settling  down,  the  existing  structure  could  no 
longer  cope  with  these  new  conditions,  and  all  its  efforts  to  do  so  were 
vain  and  fruitless.  Everywhere  conflicts  grew,  and  a  great  depression 
overwhelmed  the  world,  and  there  was  a  progressive  deterioration, 
everywhere  except  in  the  wide-flung  Soviet  territories  of  the  U.S.S.R., 
where,  in  marked  contrast  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  astonishing  prog 
ress  was  made  in  every  direction.  Two  rival  economic  and  political 
systems  faced  each  other  in  the  world,  and,  though  they  tolerated  each 
other  for  a  while,  there  was  an  inherent  antagonism  between  them, 
and  they  played  for  mastery  on  the  stage  of  the  world.  One  of  them 
was  the  capitalist  order  which  had  inevitably  developed  into  vast  im 
perialisms,  which,  having  swallowed  the  colonial  world,  were  intent 
on  eating  each  other  up.  Powerful  still  and  fearful  of  war,  which  might 
endanger  their  possessions,  yet  they  came  into  inevitable  conflict  with 
each  other  and  prepared  feverishly  for  war.  They  were  quite  unable 
to  solve  the  problems  that  threatened  them,  and  helplessly  they  sub 
mitted  to  slow  decay.  The  other  was  the  new  socialist  order  of  the 
U.S.S.R.,  which  went  from  progress  to  progress,  though  often  at  ter- 

389 


rible  cost,  and  where  the  problems  o£  the  capitalist  world  had  ceased 
to  exist. 

Capitalism,  in  its  difficulties,  took  to  fascism  with  all  its  brutal  sup 
pression  of  what  Western  civilization  had  apparently  stood  for;  it  be 
came,  even  in  some  of  its  homelands,  what  its  imperialist  counterpart 
had  long  been  in  the  subject  colonial  countries.  Fascism  and  imperi 
alism  thus  stood  out  as  the  two  faces  of  the  now  decaying  capitalism, 
and,  though  they  varied  in  different  countries  according  to  national 
characteristics  and  economic  and  political  conditions,  they  represented 
the  same  forces  of  reaction  and  supported  each  other,  and  at  the  same 
time  came  into  conflict  with  each  other,  for  such  conflict  was  inherent 
in  their  very  nature.  Socialism  in  the  west  and  the  rising  nationalisms 
of  the  Eastern  and  other  dependent  countries  opposed  this  combina 
tion  of  fascism  and  imperialism.  Nationalism  in  the  East,  it  must  be 
remembered,  was  essentially  different  from  the  new  and  terribly  nar 
row  nationalism  of  fascist  countries;  the  former  was  the  historical  urge 
to  freedom,  the  latter  the  last  refuge  of  reaction. 

Thus  we  see  the  world  divided  up  into  two  vast  groups  today — the 
imperialist  and  fascist  on  one  side,  the  socialist  and  nationalist  on  the 
other.  There  is  some  overlapping  of  the  two,  and  the  line  between 
them  is  difficult  to  draw,  for  there  is  mutual  conflict  between  the 
fascist  and  imperialist  Powers,  and  the  nationalism  of  subject  coun 
tries  has  sometimes  a  tendency  to  fascism.  But  the  main  division  holds, 
and,  if  we  keep  it  in  mind,  it  will  be  easier  for  us  to  understand  world 
conditions  and  our  own  place  in  them. 

Where  do  we  stand  then,  we  who  labor  for  a  free  India  ?  Inevitably 
we  take  our  stand  with  the  progressive  forces  of  the  world  which  are 
ranged  against  fascism  and  imperialism.  We  have  to  deal  with  one 
imperialism  in  particular,  the  oldest  and  the  most  far-reaching  of  the 
modern  world;  but,  powerful  as  it  is,  it  is  but  one  aspect  of  world  im 
perialism.  And  that  is  the  final  argument  for  Indian  independence  and 
for  the  severance  of  our  connection  with  the  British  Empire.  Be 
tween  Indian  nationalism,  Indian  freedom,  and  British  imperialism 
there  can  be  no  common  ground,  and,  if  we  remain  within  the  im 
perialist  fold,  whatever  our  name  or  status,  whatever  outward  sem 
blance  of  political  power  we  might  have,  we  remain  cribbed  and  con 
fined  and  allied  to  and  dominated  by  the  reactionary  forces  and  the 
great  financial  vested  interests  of  the  capitalist  world.  The  exploita 
tion  of  our  masses  will  still  continue,  and  all  the  vital  social  prob- 

390 


lems  that  face  us  will  remain  unsolved.  Even  real  political  freedom 
will  be  out  of  our  reach,  much  more  so  radical  social  changes. 

With  the  development  of  this  great  struggle  all  over  the  world  we 
have  seen  the  progressive  deterioration  of  many  of  the  capitalist-im 
perialist  countries  and  an  attempt  at  consolidation  of  the  reactionary 
'  forces  under  fascism  or  Nazi-ism  or  so-called  "national"  governments. 
In  India  the  same  process  has  been  evident  to  us  during  these  past 
years,  and  the  stronger  the  nationalist  movement  has  grown,  the  more 
have  efforts  been  made  by  our  imperialist  rulers  to  break  our  ranks 
and  to  gather  together  under  their  banner  the  reactionary  elements  in 
the  country.  The  Round  Table  Conferences  were  such  attempts,  and, 
though  they  helped  our  rulers  in  some  measure,  they  served  a  useful 
purpose  by  showing  us  clearly  the  division  between  the  imperialist  and 
the  anti-imperialist  forces  in  the  country.  Unhappily  we  did  not  fully 
profit  by  this  lesson,  and  we  still  imagine  that  we  can  win  over  some 
of  these  imperialist  groups  to  the  side  of  Indian  freedom  and  anti-im 
perialism,  and  in  a  vain  attempt  to  do  so  we  suppress  our  ideals,  blush 
for  our  objectives,  and  tone  down  our  activities. 

Meanwhile  the  decay  of  British  imperialism  in  India  becomes  ever 
more  apparent.  It  cannot,  by  its  very  nature,  solve  our  economic  prob 
lems  and  rid  us  of  our  terrible  poverty,  which  it  has  largely  itself 
created.  It  subsists  on  a  normal  fare  of  the  fiercest  repression  and  a  de 
nial  of  civil  and  even  personal  liberty.  It  surrounds  us  with  a  wide  net 
work  of  spies,  and,  among  the  pillars  of  its  administration,  are  the 
tribe  of  informers  and  agents  provocateurs  and  the  like.  Its  services 
try  to  seek  comfort  for  their  obvious  deterioration  and  incompetence 
by  perpetually  singing  songs  of  mutual  adulation.  Argument  gives 
place  to  the  policeman's  baton  and  the  soldier's  bayonet  and  prison 
and  detention  camp,  and  even  our  extraordinary  finances  are  justified 
by  the  methods  of  the  bully.  It  is  astonishing  to  find  to  what  depths 
of  vulgarity  our  rulers  have  descended  in  their  ardent  desire  to  hold 
on  to  what  they  have  got,  and  it  is  depressing,  though  perhaps  inevi 
table,  that  some  of  our  own  countrymen,  more  interested  in  British  im 
perialism  than  the  British  themselves,  should  excel  at  this  deplorable 
game.  So  wanting  in  mental  equilibrium  are  they,  so  obsessed  by  fear 
of  the  Congress  and  the  national  movement  it  represents,  that  their 
wishes  become  thoughts,  their  thoughts  inferences,  and  their  inferences 
facts,  solemnly  stated  in  official  publications,  and  on  which  the  majesty 
of  the  British  Government  rests  in  India,  and  people  are  kept  in  prison 
and  detention  camp  without  charge  or  trial.  Being  interested  in  psy- 

391 


chology,  I  have  watched  this  process  of  moral  and  intellectual  decay 
and  realized,  even  more  than  I  did  previously,  how  autocratic  power 
corrupts  and  degrades  and  vulgarizes.  I  have  read  sometimes  the  re 
ports  of  the  recent  Assembly  meetings  and  noted  the  great  difference 
in  tone  and  content  between  them  and  the  Assembly  of  ten  years  ago. 
I  have  observed  the  forced  attempts  made  to  discredit  the  Congress  by 
a  reference  to  the  Tilak  Swaraj  Fund  with  which  I  was  connected 
for  many  years  as  secretary  of  the  Congress.  But,  prepared  as  I  was 
for  much,  even  I  was  surprised  at  the  insinuations  made  against  our 
much-loved  chief,  Rajendra  Babu,  and  the  charges  brought  against  the 
Behar  Relief  Fund.  A  mild  criticism  by  me  of  official  incompetence 
soon  after  the  Behar  earthquake  was  deeply  resented,  probably  be 
cause  the  truth  of  it  was  realized.  Newspapers  that  criticized  the  official 
arrangements  at  a  subsequent  earthquake  were  heavily  penalized  or 
suppressed.  All  criticism  hurts  the  sensitive  skin  of  the  Government, 
and  its  reactions  are  quick  and  far-reaching.  The  more  incompetent  it 
grows,  the  less  it  likes  being  told  so.  But  this  does  not  prevent  it  from 
indulging  in  reckless  allegations  about  others. 

This  psychological  aspect  interests  me  even  more  than  the  more  ag 
gressive  manifestations  of  British  authority  in  India,  for  its  throws  light 
on  much  that  has  happened.  It  shows  us  how  a  clear  and  definite 
fascist  mentality  has  developed  among  our  rulers  and  how  closely  al 
lied  is  imperialism  to  fascism.  How  this  fascist  mentality  has  func 
tioned  in  the  recent  past  and  is  functioning  today,  I  shall  not  go  into 
now.  You  know  well  the  horror  of  these  years  and  of  the  nightmare 
that  we  have  all  experienced.  We  shall  not  easily  forget  it,  and,  if  there 
are  some  who  have  been  cowed  by  it,  there  are  others  who  have  steeled 
themselves  to  a  greater  resolve  to  end  this  infamy  in  India. 

But  of  one  thing  I  must  say  a  few  words,  for  to  me  it  is  one  of  the 
most  vital  things  that  I  value.  That  is  the  tremendous  deprivation  of 
civil  liberties  in  India.  A  government  that  has  to  rely  on  the  Criminal 
Law  Amendment  Act  and  similar  laws,  that  suppress  the  press  and 
literature,  that  ban  hundreds  of  organizations,  that  keep  people  in 
prison  without  trial,  and  that  do  so  many  other  things  that  are  hap 
pening  in  India  today,  is  a  government  that  has  ceased  to  have  even  a 
shadow  of  a  justification  for  its  existence.  I  can  never  adjust  myself  to 
these  conditions;  I  find  them  intolerable.  And  yet  I  find  many  of  my 
own  countrymen  complacent  about  them,  some  even  supporting  them, 
some,  who  have  made  the  practice  of  sitting  on  a  fence  into  a  fine  art, 
being  neutral  when  such  questions  are  discussed.  And  I  have  won- 

392 


dered  what  there  was  in  common  between  them  and  me  and  those 
who  think  as  I  do.  We  in  the  Congress  welcome  all  co-operation  in 
the  struggle  for  Indian  freedom;  our  doors  are  ever  open  to  all  who 
stand  for  that  freedom  and  are  against  imperialism.  But  they  are  not 
open  to  the  allies  of  imperialism  and  the  supporters  of  repression  and 
those  who  stand  by  the  British  Government  in  its  suppression  of  civil 
liberty.  We  belong  to  opposite  camps. 

Recently,  as  you  know,  we  have  had  a  typical  example  of  the  way 
Government  functions  in  India  in  the  warning  issued  to  a  dear  and 
valued  comrade  of  ours,  Subhas  Chandra  Bose.  We  who  know  him 
also  know  how  frivolous  are  the  charges  brought  against  him.  But, 
even  if  there  was  substance  in  them,  we  could  not  tolerate  willingly 
the  treatment  to  which  he  has  long  been  subjected.  He  did  me  the 
honor  to  ask  me  for  advice,  and  I  was  puzzled  and  perplexed,  for  it  is 
no  easy  thing  to  advise  another  in  such  a  matter,  when  such  advice 
might  mean  prison.  Subhas  Bose  has  suffered  enough  at  the  cost  of  his 
health.  Was  I  justified  in  adding  to  this  mental  and  physical  agony? 
I  hesitated  and  at  first  suggested  to  him  to  postpone  his  departure.  But 
this  advice  made  me  unhappy,  and  I  consulted  other  friends  and  then 
advised  him  differently.  I  suggested  that  he  should  return  to  his  home 
land  as  soon  as  he  could.  But  it  appears  that  even  before  my  advice 
reached  him  he  had  started  on  his  journey  back  to  India. 

This  instance  leads  us  to  think  of  the  larger  problem,  of  the  way 
the  bogey  of  terrorism  has  been  exploited  by  the  Government  to  crush 
political  activity  and  to  cripple  physically  and  mentally  the  fair  prov 
ince  of  Bengal.  You  know  that  terrorism  as  such  is  practically  non 
existent  now  in  Bengal  or  any  part  of  India.  Terrorism  is  always  a 
sign  of  political  immaturity  in  a  people,  just  as  so-called  constitution 
alism,  where  there  is  no  democratic  constitution,  is  a  sign  of  political 
senility.  Our  national  movement  has  long  outgrown  that  immature 
stage,  and  even  the  odd  individuals  who  have  in  the  past  indulged  in 
terrorist  acts  have  apparently  given  up  that  tragic  and  futile  philoso 
phy.  The  Congress,  by  its  stress  on  peaceful  and  effective  action,  has 
drawn  the  youth  of  the  country  into  its  fold,  and  all  traces  of  terror 
istic  activity  would  long  have  vanished  but  for  the  policy  of  the  Gov 
ernment,  which  feeds  the  roots  out  of  which  a  helpless  violence  grows. 
But,  terrorism  or  no  terrorism,  a  government  which  adopts  the  methods 
which  have  long  prevailed  in  Midnapore  and  elsewhere  in  Bengal 
stands  self-condemned.  Similar  methods  have  also  long  prevailed  in  the 
Frontier  Province,  although  there  is  no  hint  of  terroristic  activity 

393 


there^  and  that  fine  man  and  true,  beloved  of  millions,  Abdul  Ghaffar 
Khan,  still  lies  in  prison.  Excuses  differ,  but  the  real  reason  is  the  ever 
growing  fascist  mentality  of  our  rulers. 

That  is  one  side  of  the  picture.  What  of  us?  I  have  found  a  spirit 
of  disunion  spreading  over  the  land,  a  strange  malaise,  and  petty  con 
flicts  among  old  comrades  growing  ever  bigger  and  interfering  with 
all  activity.  We  have  forgotten  for  the  moment  the  larger  ideals  we 
stood  for,  and  we  quarrel  over  petty  issues.  We  have  largely  lost  touch 
with  the  masses,  and,  deprived  of  the  life-giving  energy  that  flows 
from  them,  we  dry  up  and  weaken,  and  our  organization  shrinks  and 
loses  the  power  it  had.  First  things  must  always  come  first,  and,  be 
cause  we  have  forgotten  this  and  argue  and  dispute  over  secondary 
matters,  we  are  in  danger  of  losing  our  bearings. 

Every  great  struggle  has  its  ups  and  downs  and  temporary  failures. 
When  such  a  setback  occurs,  there  is  a  reaction  when  the  fund  of 
national  energy  is  exhausted  and  has  to  be  recharged.  That  happens 
again  and  again,  and  yet  that  is  not  an  adequate  explanation  of  all 
that  has  taken  place.  Our  direct-action  struggles  in  the  past  were  based 
on  the  masses,  and  especially  the  peasantry,  but  the  backbone  and 
leadership  were  always  supplied  by  the  middle  classes,  and  this,  under 
the  circumstances,  was  inevitable.  The  middle  classes  are  a  vague 
group  or  groups;  at  the  top,  a  handful  of  them  are  closely  allied  to 
British  imperialism;  at  the  bottom  are  the  dispossessed  and  other 
groups  who  have  been  progressively  crushed  by  economic  circum 
stances  and  out  of  whose  ranks  come  the  advanced  political  workers 
and  revolutionaries;  in  between  are  the  center  groups,  which  tend 
often  to  side  with  the  advanced  elements,  but  which  also  have  alliances 
with  the  upper  groups  and  live  in  the  hope  of  joining  their  superior 
ranks.  A  middle-class  leadership  is  thus  often  a  distracted  leadership, 
looking  in  two  directions  at  the  same  time.  In  times  of  crisis  and 
struggle,  when  unity  of  aim  and  activity  is  essential,  this  two-faced 
leadership  is  bound  to  injure  the  cause  and  to  hold  back  when  a  for 
ward  move  is  called  for.  Being  too  much  tied  up  with  property  and 
the  goods  of  this  world,  it  is  fearful  of  losing  them,  and  it  is  easier  to 
bring  pressure  on  it  and  to  exhaust  its  stamina.  And  yet,  paradoxically, 
it  is  only  from  the  middle-class  intellectuals  that  revolutionary  leader 
ship  comes,  and  we  in  India  know  that  our  bravest  leaders  and  our 
stoutest  comrades  have  come  from  the  ranks  of  the  middle  classes.  But 
by  the  very  nature  of  our  struggle,  these  front-rank  leaders  are  taken 
away,  and  the  others  who  take  their  places  tire  and  are  influenced 

394 


more  by  the  static  element  o£  their  class.  That  has  been  very  evident 
during  our  recent  struggle,  when  our  propertied  classes  were  hit  hard 
by  the  Government's  drastic  policy  of  seizure  and  confiscation  of 
moneys  and  properties,  and  were  thus  induced  to  bring  pressure  for  the 
suspension  of  the  struggle. 

How  is  this  problem  to  be  solved,  then?  Inevitably,  we  must  have 
middle-class  leadership,  but  this  must  look  more  and  more  toward  the 
masses  and  draw  strength  and  inspiration  from  them.  The  Congress 
must  be  not  only  for  the  masses,  as  it  claims  to  be,  but  of  the  masses; 
only  then  will  it  really  be  for  the  masses.  I  have  a  feeling  that  our 
relative  weakness  today  is  due  to  a  certain  decay  of  our  middle-class 
elements  and  our  divorce  from  the  people  at  large.  Our  policies  and 
ideas  are  governed  far  more  by  this  middle-class  outlook  than  by  a 
consideration  of  the  needs  of  the  great  majority  of  the  population. 
Even  the  problems  that  trouble  us  are  essentially  middle-class  problems, 
like  the  communal  problem,  which  have  no  significance  for  the  masses. 

This  is  partly  due,  I  think,  to  a  certain  historical  growth  during  the 
last  fifteen  years  to  which  we  have  failed  to  adapt  ourselves,  to  a  grow 
ing  urgency  of  economic  problems  affecting  the  masses,  and  to  a  rising 
mass  consciousness  which  does  not  find  sufficient  outlet  through  the 
Congress.  This  was  not  so  in  1920  and  later  when  there  was  an  organic 
link  between  Congress  and  the  masses,  and  their  needs  and  desires, 
vague  as  they  were,  found  expression  in  the  Congress.  But,  as  those 
needs  and  desires  have  taken  more  definite  shape,  they  have  not  been 
so  welcome  to  other  elements  in  the  Congress,  and  that  organic  con 
nection  has  gone.  That,  though  regrettable,  is  really  a  sign  of  growth, 
and,  instead  of  lamenting  it,  we  must  find  a  new  link  and  a  new  con 
nection  on  a  fresh  basis  which  allows  for  growth  of  mass  conscious 
ness  within  the  Congress.  The  middle-class  claim  to  represent  the 
masses  had  some  justification  in  1920;  it  has  much  less  today,  though 
the  lower  middle  classes  have  still  a  great  deal  in  common  with  the 
masses. 

Partly  also  our  divorce  from  the  people  at  large  is  due  to  a  certain 
narrowness  of  our  Congress  constitution.  The  radical  changes  made  in 
it  fifteen  years  ago  brought  it  in  line  with  existing  conditions  then, 
and  it  drew  in  large  numbers  and  became  an  effective  instrument  of 
national  activity.  Though  the  control  and  background  were  essentially 
middle-class  and  city,  it  reached  the  remotest  village  and  brought  with 
it  political  and  economic  consciousness  to  the  masses,  and  there  was 
widespread  discussion  of  national  issues  in  city  and  village  alike.  One 

395 


could  feel  the  new  life  pulsating  through  this  vast  land  of  ours,  and, 
as  we  were  in  harmony  with  it,  we  drew  strength  from  it.  The  intense 
repression  by  the  Government  during  later  years  broke  many  of  our 
physical  and  outward  bonds  with  our  countryside.  But  something 
more  than  that  happened.  The  vague  appeal  of  earlier  days  no  longer 
sufficed,  and  on  the  new  economic  issues  that  were  forcing  themselves 
on  us,  we  hesitated  to  give  a  definite  opinion.  Worse  even  than  the 
physical  divorce,  there  was  a  mental  divorce  between  the  middle-class 
elements  and  the  mass  elements.  Our  constitution  no  longer  fitted  in 
with  changing  conditions;  it  lost  its  roots  in  the  soil  and  became  a 
matter  of  small  committees  functioning  in  the  air.  It  still  had  the 
mighty  prestige  of  the  Congress  name  behind  it,  and  this  carried  it  a 
long  way,  but  it  had  lost  the  living  democratic  touch.  It  became  a  prey 
to  authoritarianism  and  a  battleground  for  rival  cliques  fighting  for 
control,  and,  in  doing  so,  stooping  to  the  lowest  and  most  objectionable 
of  tactics.  Idealism  disappeared,  and  in  its  place  there  came  oppor 
tunism  and  corruption.  The  constitutional  structure  of  the  Congress 
was  unequal  to  facing  the  new  situation;  it  could  be  shaken  up  any 
where  almost  by  a  handful  of  unscrupulous  individuals.  Only  a  broad 
democratic  basis  could  have  saved  it,  and  this  was  lacking. 

Last  year  an  attempt  was  made  to  revise  the  constitution  in  order 
to  get  rid  of  some  of  these  evils.  How  far  that  attempt  has  succeeded 
or  not  I  am  not  competent  to  judge.  Perhaps  it  has  made  the  organiza 
tion  more  efficient,  but  efficiency  means  little  if  it  has  no  strength 
behind  it,  and  strength,  for  us,  can  come  only  from  the  masses.  The 
present  constitution  stresses  still  further  the  authoritarian  side  of  the 
organization,  and  in  spite  of  stressing  rural  representation  does  not 
provide  effective  links  with  the  masses. 

The  real  problem  for  us  is,  how  in  our  struggle  for  independence 
we  can  join  together  all  the  anti-imperialist  forces  in  the  country,  how 
we  can  make  a  broad  front  of  our  mass  elements  with  the  great  ma 
jority  of  the  middle  classes  which  stands  for  independence.  There  has 
been  some  talk  of  a  joint  front,  but,  so  far  as  I  can  gather,  this  refers 
to  some  alliance  among  the  upper  classes,  probably  at  the  expense  of 
the  masses.  That  surely  can  never  be  the  idea  of  the  Congress,  and,  if 
it  favors  it,  it  betrays  the  interests  it  has  claimed  to  represent  and  loses 
the  very  reason  for  its  existence.  The  essence  of  a  joint  popular  front 
must  be  uncompromising  opposition  to  imperialism,  and  the  strength 
of  it  must  inevitably  come  from  the  active  participation  of  the  peasan 
try  and  workers. 

396 


Perhaps  you  have  wondered  at  the  way  I  have  dealt  at  some  length 
with  the  background  of  international  and  national  affairs  and  not 
touched  so  far  the  immediate  problems  that  fill  your  minds.  You  may 
have  grown  impatient.  But  I  am  convinced  that  the  only  right  way 
of  looking  at  our  own  problems  is  to  see  them  in  their  proper  place 
in  a  world  setting.  I  am  convinced  that  there  is  intimate  connection 
between  world  events,  and  our  national  problem  is  but  a  part  of  the 
world  problem  of  capitalist  imperialism.  To  look  at  each  event  apart 
from  the  others  and  without  understanding  the  connection  between 
them  must  lead  us  to  the  formation  of  erratic  and  erroneous  views. 
Look  at  the  vast  panorama  of  world  change  today,  where  mighty 
forces  are  at  grips  with  each  other  and  dreadful  war  darkens  the  hori 
zon.  Subject  peoples  struggling  for  freedom  and  imperialism  crushing 
them  down;  exploited  classes  facing  their  exploiters  and  seeking  free 
dom  and  equality.  Italian  imperialism  bombing  and  killing  the  brave 
Ethiopians;  Japanese  imperialism  continuing  its  aggression  in  north 
China  and  Mongolia;  British  imperialism  piously  objecting  to  other 
countries  misbehaving,  yet  carrying  on  in  much  the  same  way  in  India 
and  the  Frontier;  and  behind  it  all  a  decaying  economic  order  which 
intensifies  all  these  conflicts.  Can  we  not  see  an  organic  connection  in 
all  these  various  phenomena?  Let  us  try  to  develop  the  historic  sense 
so  that  we  can  view  current  events  in  proper  perspective  and  under 
stand  their  real  significance.  Only  then  can  we  appreciate  the  march 
of  history  and  keep  step  with  it. 

I  realize  that  in  this  address  I  am  going  a  little  beyond  the  usual 
beat  of  the  Congress  president.  But  I  do  not  want  you  to  have  me 
under  any  false  pretenses,  and  \ve  must  have  perfect  frankness  with 
each  other.  Most  of  you  must  know  my  views  on  social  and  economic 
matters,  for  I  have  often  given  expression  to  them.  Yet  you  chose  me 
as  president.  I  do  not  take  that  choice  to  mean  an  endorsement  by 
you  all,  or  by  a  majority,  of  those  views,  but  I  take  it  that  this  does 
mean  that  those  views  are  spreading  in  India  and  that  most  of  you 
will  be  indulgent  in  considering  them  at  least. 

I  am  convinced  that  the  only  key  to  the  solution  of  the  world's 
problems  and  of  India's  problems  lies  in  socialism,  and,  when  I  use 
this  word,  I  do  so  not  in  a  vague  humanitarian  way  but  in  the  scien 
tific,  economic  sense.  Socialism  is,  however,  something  even  more  than 
an  economic  doctrine;  it  is  a  philosophy  of  life,  and  as  such  also  it 
appeals  to  me.  I  see  no  way  of  ending  the  poverty,  the  vast  unemploy 
ment,  the  degradation  and  the  subjection  of  the  Indian  people  except 

397 


through  socialism.  That  involves  vast  and  revolutionary  changes  in  our 
political  and  social  structure,  the  ending  of  vested  interests  in  land  and 
Indus  try  3  as  well  as  the  feudal  and  autocratic  Indian  states  system. 
That  means  the  ending  of  private  property,  except  in  a  restricted  sense, 
and  the  replacement  of  the  present  profit  system  by  a  higher  ideal  of 
co-operative  service.  It  means  ultimately  a  change  in  our  instincts  and 
habits  and  desires.  In  short,  it  means  a  new  civilization,  radically  dif 
ferent  from  the  present  capitalist  order.  Some  glimpse  we  can  have  of 
this  new  civilization  in  the  territories  of  the  U.S.S.R.  Much  has  hap 
pened  there  which  has  pained  me  greatly  and  with  which  I  disagree, 
but  I  look  upon  that  great  and  fascinating  unfolding  of  a  new  order 
and  a  new  civilization  as  the  most  promising  feature  of  our  dismal 
age.  If  the  future  is  full  of  hope,  it  is  largely  because  of  Soviet  Russia 
and  what  it  has  done,  and  I  am  convinced  that,  if  some  world  catas 
trophe  does  not  intervene,  this  new  civilization  will  spread  to  other 
lands  and  put  an  end  to  the  wars  and  conflicts  which  capitalism  feeds. 

I  do  not  know  how  or  when  this  new  order  will  come  to  India.  I 
imagine  that  every  country  will  fashion  it  after  its  own  way  and  fit 
it  in  with  its  national  genius.  But  the  essential  basis  of  that  order  must 
remain  and  be  a  link  in  the  world  order  that  will  emerge  out  of  the 
present  chaos. 

Socialism  is  thus  for  me  not  merely  an  economic  doctrine  which  I 
favor;  it  is  a  vital  creed  which  I  hold  with  all  my  head  and  heart.  I 
work  for  Indian  independence  because  the  nationalist  in  me  cannot 
tolerate  alien  domination;  I  work  for  it  even  more  because  for  me  it 
is  the  inevitable  step  to  social  and  economic  change.  I  should  like  the 
Congress  to  become  a  socialist  organization  and  to  join  hands  with 
the  other  forces  in  the  world  who  are  working  for  the  new  civilization. 
But  I  realize  that  the  majority  in  the  Congress,  as  it  is  constituted 
today,  may  not  be  prepared  to  go  thus  far.  We  are  a  nationalist  or 
ganization,  and  we  think  and  work  on  the  nationalist  plane.  It  is  evi 
dent  enough  now  that  this  is  too  narrow  even  for  the  limited  objective 
of  political  independence,  and  so  we  talk  of  the  masses  and  their  eco 
nomic  needs.  But  still  most  of  us  hesitate,  because  of  our  nationalist 
backgrounds,  to  take  a  step  which  might  frighten  away  some  vested 
interests.  Most  of  those  interests  are  already  ranged  against  us,  and  we 
can  expect  little  from  them  except  opposition  even  in  the  political 
struggle. 

Much  as  I  wish  for  the  advancement  of  socialism  in  this  country,  I 
have  no  desire  to  force  the  issue  in  the  Congress  and  thereby  create 

398 


difficulties  in  the  way  of  our  struggle  for  independence.  I  shall  co 
operate  gladly  and  with  all  the  strength  in  me  with  all  those  who 
work  for  independence  even  though  they  do  not  agree  with  the  social 
ist  solution.  But  I  shall  do  so  stating  my  position  frankly  and  hoping 
in  course  of  time  to  convert  the  Congress  and  the  country  to  it,  for 
only  thus  can  I  see  it  achieving  independence.  It  should  surely  be  possi 
ble  for  all  of  us  who  believe  in  independence  to  join  our  ranks  together 
even  though  we  might  differ  on  the  social  issue.  The  Congress  has 
been  in  the  past  a  broad  front  representing  various  opinions  joined 
together  by  that  common  bond.  It  must  continue  as  such  even  though 
the  difference  of  those  opinions  becomes  more  marked. 

How  does  socialism  fit  in  with  the  present  ideology  of  the  Congress  ? 
I  do  not  think  it  does.  I  believe  in  the  rapid  industrialization  of  the 
country;  and  only  thus,  I  think,  will  the  standards  of  the  people  rise 
substantially  and  poverty  be  combated.  Yet  I  have  co-operated  whole 
heartedly  in  the  past  with  the  \hadi  program,  and  I  hope  to  do  so  in 
the  future  because  I  believe  that  Jtfiadi  and  village  industries  have  a 
definite  place  in  our  present  economy.  They  have  a  social,  a  political, 
and  an  economic  value  which  is  difficult  to  measure  but  which  is 
apparent  enough  to  those  who  have  studied  their  effects.  But  I  look 
upon  them  more  as  temporary  expedients  of  a  transition  stage  than  as 
solutions  of  our  vital  problems.  That  transition  stage  might  be  a  long 
one,  and  in  a  country  like  India,  village  industries  might  well  play  an 
important,  though  subsidiary,  role  even  after  the  development  of  in 
dustrialism.  But,  though  I  co-operate  in  the  village-industries  program, 
my  ideological  approach  to  it  differs  considerably  from  that  of  many 
others  in  the  Congress  who  are  opposed  to  industrialization  and 
socialism. 

The  problem  of  untouchability  and  the  Harijans  again  can  be  ap 
proached  in  different  ways.  For  a  socialist  it  presents  no  difficulty,  for 
under  socialism  there  can  be  no  such  differentiation  or  victimization. 
Economically  speaking,  the  Harijans  have  constituted  the  landless  pro 
letariat,  and  an  economic  solution  removes  the  social  barriers  that  cus 
tom  and  tradition  have  raised. 

I  come  now  to  a  question  which  is  probably  occupying  your  minds 
— the  new  Act  passed  by  the  British  Parliament  and  our  policy  in 
regard  to  it.  This  Act  has  come  into  being  since  the  last  Congress  met, 
but  even  at  that  time  we  had  had  a  foretaste  of  it  in  the  shape  of  the 
White  Paper,  and  I  know  of  no  abler  analysis  of  those  provisions  than 
that  contained  in  the  presidential  address  of  my  predecessor  in  this 

399 


high  office.  The  Congress  rejected  that  proposed  constitution  and  re 
solved  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  The  new  Act,  as  is  well  known, 
is  an  even  more  retrograde  measure  and  has  been  condemned  by  even 
the  most  moderate  and  cautious  o£  our  politicians.  If  we  rejected  the 
White  Paper,  what  then  are  we  to  do  with  this  new  charter  of  slavery 
to  strengthen  the  bonds  of  imperialist  domination  and  to  intensify  the 
exploitation  of  our  masses?  And,  even  if  we  forget  its  content  for  a 
while,  can  we  forget  the  insult  and  injury  that  have  accompanied  it, 
the  contemptuous  defiance  of  our  wishes,  the  suppression  of  civil 
liberties,  and  the  widespread  repression  that  has  been  our  normal  lot? 
If  they  had  offered  to  us  the  crown  of  heaven  with  this  accompani 
ment  and  with  dishonor,  would  we  not  have  spurned  it  as  inconsistent 
with  our  national  honor  and  self-respect?  What  then  of  this? 

A  charter  of  slavery  is  no  law  for  the  slave,  and,  though  we  may 
perforce  submit  for  a  while  to  it  and  to  the  humiliation  of  ordinances 
and  the  like,  inherent  in  that  enforced  submission  are  the  right  and  the 
desire  to  rebel  against  it  and  to  end  it. 

Our  lawyers  have  examined  this  new  constitution  and  have  con 
demned  it.  But  constitutions  are  something  much  more  than  legal 
documents.  "The  real  constitution,'5  said  Ferdinand  Lassalle,  consists  of 
"the  actual  relationships  of  power,"  and  the  working  of  this  power  we 
see  even  today,  after  the  Act  has  been  passed.  That  is  the  constitution 
we  have  to  face,  not  the  fine  phrases  which  are  sometimes  presented 
to  us,  and  we  can  only  deal  with  it  with  the  strength  and  power  gen 
erated  by  the  people  of  the  country. 

To  this  Act  our  attitude  can  only  be  one  of  uncompromising  hos 
tility  and  a  constant  endeavor  to  end  it.  How  can  we  do  this  ? 

Since  my  return  from  Europe  I  have  had  the  advantage  of  full  and 
frank  discussion  with  my  colleagues  of  the  Working  Committee.  All 
of  us  have  agreed  that  the  Act  has  to  be  rejected  and  combated,  but 
all  of  us  have  not  been  able  to  agree  to  the  manner  of  doing  so.  We 
have  pulled  together  in  the  past,  and  I  earnestly  hope  that  we  shall  do 
so  in  the  future,  but  in  order  to  do  so  effectively  we  must  recognize 
that  there  are  marked  differences  in  our  outlooks.  I  do  not  yet  know, 
as  I  write,  what  the  final  recommendation  of  the  Working  Committee 
will  be  on  this  issue.  I  can  only,  therefore,  venture  to  put  before  you 
my  own  personal  views  on  the  subject,  not  knowing  how  far  they 
represent  the  views  of  Congressmen.  I  should  like  to  make  it  clear, 
however,  in  fairness  to  my  old  colleagues  of  the  Working  Committee, 
that  the  majority  of  them  do  not  agree  with  all  the  views  I  am  going 

400 


to  express.  But,  whether  we  agree  or  disagree,  or  whether  we  agree 
to  differ,  there  is  a  strong  desire  on  our  part  to  continue  to  co-operate 
together,  laying  stress  on  our  many  points  of  agreement  rather  than  on 
the  differences.  That  is  the  right  course  for  us,  and,  as  a  democratic 
organization,  that  is  the  only  course  open  to  us. 

I  think  that,  under  the  circumstances,  we  have  no  choice  but  to 
contest  the  election  to  the  new  provincial  legislatures,  in  the  event  of 
their  taking  place.  We  should  seek  election  on  the  basis  of  a  detailed 
political  and  economic  program,  with  our  demand  for  a  Constituent 
Assembly  in  the  forefront.  I  am  convinced  that  the  only  solution  of 
our  political  and  communal  problems  will  come  through  such  an  as 
sembly,  provided  it  is  elected  on  an  adult  franchise  and  a  mass  basis. 
That  Assembly  will  not  come  into  existence  till  at  least  a  semirevolu- 
tionary  situation  has  been  created  in  this  country  and  the  actual  rela 
tionships  of  power,  apart  from  paper  constitutions,  are  such  that  the 
people  of  India  can  make  their  will  felt.  When  that  will  happen,  I 
cannot  say,  but  the  world  is  too  much  in  the  grip  of  dynamic  forces 
today  to  admit  of  static  conditions  in  India  or  elsewhere  for  long.  We 
may  thus  have  to  face  this  issue  sooner  than  we  might  expect.  But, 
obviously,  a  Constituent  Assembly  will  not  come  through  the  new  Act 
or  the  new  legislatures.  Yet  we  must  press  this  demand  and  keep  it 
before  our  country  and  the  world,  so  that  when  the  time  comes  we 
may  be  ripe  for  it. 

A  Constituent  Assembly  is  the  only  proper  and  democratic  method 
for  the  framing  of  our  constitution,  and  for  its  delegates  then  to  nego 
tiate  a  treaty  with  the  representatives  of  the  British  Government.  But 
we  cannot  go  to  it  with  blank  minds  in  the  hope  that  something  good 
will  emerge  out  of  it.  Such  an  assembly,  in  order  to  be  fruitful,  must 
have  previous  thought  behind  it  and  a  definite  scheme  put  forward  by 
an  organized  group.  The  actual  details,  as  to  how  the  Assembly  is  to 
be  convened,  must  depend  on  the  circumstances  then  existing  and  need 
not  trouble  us  now.  But  it  will  be  our  function  as  the  Congress  to 
know  exactly  what  we  are  after,  to  place  this  clearly  and  definitely 
before  the  Assembly,  and  to  press  for  its  acceptance. 

One  of  the  principal  reasons  for  our  seeking  election  will  be  to  carry 
the  message  of  the  Congress  to  the  millions  of  voters  and  to  the  scores 
of  millions  of  the  disfranchised,  to  acquaint  them  with  our  future 
program  and  policy,  to  make  the  masses  realize  that  we  not  only  stand 
for  them  but  that  we  are  of  them  and  seek  to  co-operate  with  them 
in  removing  their  social  and  economic  burdens.  Our  appeal  and  mes- 

401 


sage  will  not  be  limited  to  the  voters,  for  we  must  remember  that 
hundreds  o£  millions  are  disfranchised  and  they  need  our  help  most,  for 
they  are  at  the  bottom  of  the  social  ladder  and  suffer  most  from  exploi 
tation.  We  have  seen  in  the  past  widespread  official  interference  in  the 
elections;  we  shall  have  to  face  that,  as  well  as  the  serried  and  moneyed 
ranks  of  the  reactionaries.  But  the  real  danger  will  come  from  our 
toning  down  our  program  and  policy  in  order  to  win  over  the  hesi 
tating  and  compromising  groups  and  individuals.  If  we  compromise 
on  principles,  we  shall  fall  between  two  stools  and  deserve  our  fall.  The 
only  right  way  and  the  only  safe  way  is  to  stand  four-square  on  our 
own  program  and  to  compromise  with  no  one  who  has  opposed  the 
national  struggle  for  freedom  in  the  past,  or  who  is  in  any  way  giving 
support  to  British  imperialism. 

When  we  have  survived  the  election,  what  then  are  we  to  do?  Office 
or  no  office?  A  secondary  matter  perhaps,  and  yet  behind  that  issue 
lie  deep  questions  of  principle  and  vital  differences  of  outlook,  and  a 
decision  on  that,  either  way,  has  far-reaching  consequences.  Behind  it 
lies,  somewhat  hidden,  the  question  of  independence  itself  and  whether 
we  seek  revolutionary  changes  in  India  or  are  working  for  petty  re 
forms  under  the  aegis  of  British  imperialism.  We  go  back  again  in 
thought  to  the  clash  of  ideas  which  preceded  the  changes  in  the  Con 
gress  in  1920.  We  made  a  choice  then  deliberately  and  with  determina 
tion  discarded  the  old  sterile  creed  of  reformism.  Are  we  to  go  back 
again  to  that  blind  and  suffocating  lane,  after  all  these  years  of  brave 
endeavor,  and  to  wipe  out  the  memory  of  what  we  have  done  and 
achieved  and  suffered?  That  is  the  issue,  and  let  none  of  us  forget  it 
when  we  have  to  give  our  decision.  In  this  India,  crying  aloud  for 
radical  and  fundamental  change,  in  this  world  pregnant  with  revolu 
tionary  and  dynamic  possibility,  are  we  to  forget  our  mission  and  our 
historic  destiny,  and  slide  back  to  static  futility?  And,  if  some  of  us 
feel  tired  and  hunger  for  rest  and  quiet,  do  we  imagine  that  India's 
masses  will  follow  our  lead,  when  elemental  forces  and  economic 
necessity  are  driving  them  to  their  inevitable  goal?  If  we  enter  the 
backwaters,  others  will  take  our  place  on  the  bosom  of  the  flowing 
stream  and  will  dare  to  take  the  rapids  and  ride  the  torrent. 

How  has  this  question  arisen?  If  we  express  our  hostility  to  the  Act 
and  reject  the  entire  scheme,  does  it  not  follow  logically  that  we  should 
have  nothing  to  do  with  the  working  of  it  and  should  prevent  its  func 
tioning,  in  so  far  as  we  can?  To  accept  office  and  ministry  under  the 
conditions  of  the  Act,  is  to  negate  our  rejection  of  it  and  to  stand  self- 

402 


condemned.  National  honor  and  self-respect  cannot  accept  this  position, 
for  it  would  inevitably  mean  our  co-operation  in  some  measure  with 
the  repressive  apparatus  of  imperialism,  and  we  would  become  part 
ners  in  this  repression  and  in  the  exploitation  of  our  people.  Of  course 
we  would  try  to  champion  the  rights  of  the  people  and  would  protest 
against  repression,  but  as  ministers  under  the  Act  we  could  do  very 
little  to  give  relief,  and  we  would  have  to  share  responsibility  for  the 
administration  with  the  apparatus  of  imperialism,  for  the  deficit  bud 
gets,  for  the  suppression  of  labor  and  the  peasantry.  It  is  always  dan 
gerous  to  assume  responsibility  without  power,  even  in  democratic 
countries;  it  will  be  far  worse  with  this  undemocratic  constitution, 
hedged  in  with  safeguards  and  reserved  powers  and  mortgaged  funds, 
where  we  have  to  follow  the  rules  and  regulations  of  our  opponents' 
making.  Imperialism  sometimes  talks  of  co-operation,  but  the  kind  of 
co-operation  it  wants  is  usually  known  as  surrender,  and  the  ministers 
who  accept  office  will  have  to  do  so  at  the  price  of  surrender  of  much 
that  they  might  have  stood  for  in  public.  That  is  a  humiliating  posi 
tion  which  self-respect  itself  should  prevent  one  from  accepting.  For 
our  great  national  organization  to  be  party  to  it  is  to  give  up  the  very 
basis  and  background  of  our  existence. 

Self-respect  apart,  common  sense  tells  us  that  we  can  lose  much  and 
gain  little  by  acceptance  of  office  in  terms  of  the  Act.  We  cannot  get 
much  out  of  it,  or  else  our  criticism  of  the  Act  itself  is  wrong,  and  we 
know  that  it  is  not  so.  The  big  things  for  which  we  stand  will  fade 
into  the  background,  and  petty  issues  will  absorb  our  attention,  and 
we  shall  lose  ourselves  in  compromises  and  communal  tangles,  and 
disillusion  with  us  will  spread  over  the  land.  If  we  have  a  majority, 
and  only  then  can  the  question  of  acceptance  of  office  arise,  we  shall 
be  in  a  position  to  dominate  the  situation  and  to  prevent  reactionaries 
and  imperialists  from  profiting  by  it.  Office  will  not  add  to  our  real 
strength;  it  will  only  weaken  us  by  making  us  responsible  for  many 
things  that  we  utterly  dislike. 

Again,  if  we  are  in  a  minority,  the  question  of  office  does  not  arise. 
It  may  be,  however,  that  we  are  on  the  verge  of  a  majority  and  with 
the  co-operation  of  other  individuals  and  groups  we  can  obtain  office. 
There  is  nothing  inherently  wrong  in  our  acting  together  with  others 
on  specific  issues  of  civil  liberty  or  economic  or  other  demands,  pro 
vided  we  do  not  compromise  on  any  principle.  But  I  can  imagine 
few  things  more  dangerous  and  more  likely  to  injure  us  than  the 

403 


acceptance  of  office  on  the  sufferance  of  others.  That  would  be  an 
intolerable  position. 

It  is  said  that  our  chances  at  the  elections  would  increase  if  we 
announced  that  we  were  prepared  to  accept  offices  and  ministries.  Per 
haps  that  might  be  so,  for  all  manner  of  other  people,  eager  for  the 
spoils  and  patronage  that  office  gives,  would  then  hurry  to  join  us. 
Does  any  Congressman  imagine  that  this  would  be  a  desirable  develop 
ment  or  that  we  would  gain  strength  thereby?  Again,  it  is  said  more 
voters  would  vote  for  us  if  they  knew  that  we  were  going  to  form 
ministries.  That  might  happen  if  we  deluded  them  with  false  promises 
of  what  we  might  do  for  them  within  the  Act,  but  a  quick  nemesis 
would  follow  our  failure  to  give  effect  to  those  promises,  and  failure 
would  be  inevitable  if  the  promises  were  worth  while. 

There  is  only  one  straight  course  open  to  us:  to  go  to  the  people 
with  our  program  and  make  it  clear  to  them  that  we  cannot  give  effect 
to  the  major  items  in  it  under  present  conditions,  and  therefore,  while 
we  use  the  platform  of  the  legislatures  to  press  that  program,  we  seek 
to  end  these  imperialist  bodies  by  creating  deadlocks  in  them  whenever 
we  are  in  a  position  to  do  so.  Those  deadlocks  should  preferably  take 
place  on  those  programs  so  that  the  masses  might  learn  how  ineffective 
for  their  purposes  are  these  legislatures. 

One  fact  is  sometimes  forgotten — the  provision  for  second  chambers 
in  many  of  the  provinces.  These  chambers  will  be  reactionary  and  will 
be  exploited  by  the  Governor  to  check  any  forward  tendencies  in  the 
lower  house.  They  will  make  the  position  of  a  minister  who  seeks 
advance  even  more  difficult  and  unenviable. 

Some  people  have  suggested,  though  their  voices  are  hushed  now, 
that  provincial  autonomy  might  be  given  on  this  office  issue  and  each 
Provincial  Congress  Committee  should  be  empowered  to  decide  it  for 
its  own  province.  An  astonishing  and  fatal  suggestion  playing  into  the 
hands  of  our  imperialist  rulers.  We  who  have  labored  for  Indian  unity 
can  never  be  parties  to  any  proposal  which  tends  to  lessen  that  unity. 
That  way  lies  disaster  and  a  disruption  of  the  forces  working  for  free 
dom.  If  we  agree  to  this,  why  then  should  we  also  not  agree  to  the 
communal  issue  being  decided  provincially,  or  many  other  issues 
where  individual  provinces  might  think  differently?  First  issues  will 
sink  into  the  background,  independence  itself  will  fade  away,  and  the 
narrowest  provincialism  raise  its  ugly  head.  Our  policy  must  be  uni 
form  for  the  whole  of  India,  and  it  must  place  first  things  first,  and 
independence  is  the  first  thing  of  all. 

404 


So  that  I  am  convinced  that  for  the  Congress  to  favor  the  acceptance 
of  office,  or  even  to  hesitate  and  waver  about  it,  would  be  a  vital  error. 
It  will  be  a  pit  from  which  it  would  be  difficult  for  us  to  come  out. 
Practical  statesmanship  is  against  it,  as  well  as  the  traditions  of  the 
Congress  and  the  mentality  we  have  sought  to  develop  in  the  people. 
Psychologically,  any  such  lead  might  have  disastrous  consequences.  If 
we  stand  for  revolutionary  changes,  as  we  do,  we  have  to  cultivate  a 
revolutionary  mentality  among  our  people,  and  anything  that  goes 
against  it  is  harmful  to  our  cause. 

This  psychological  aspect  is  important.  For  we  must  never  forget, 
and  never  delude  our  masses  into  imagining,  that  we  can  get  any  real 
power  or  real  freedom  through  working  these  legislatures.  We  may 
use  them  certainly  to  advance  our  cause  to  some  extent,  but  the  burden 
of  the  struggle  for  freedom  must  fall  on  the  masses,  and  primarily, 
therefore,  our  effective  work  must  lie  outside  these  legislatures.  Strength 
will  come  from  the  masses  and  from  our  work  among  them  and  our 
organization  of  them. 

Of  secondary  importance  though  the  work  in  the  legislatures  is,  we 
may  not  treat  it  casually  and  allow  it  to  become  a  hindrance  to  our 
other  work.  Therefore  it  is  necessary  for  the  Congress,  through  its 
executive,  to  have  direct  control  over  the  elections  and  the  program 
placed  before  the  country,  as  well  as  the  activity  in  the  legislatures. 
Such  control  will  inevitably  be  exercised  through  committees  and 
boards  appointed  for  the  purpose,  but  the  continued  existence  of  semi- 
autonomous  parliamentary  boards  seems  to  be  undesirable.  Provision 
should  also  be  made  for  a  periodical  review  of  all  such  activities  so  that 
Congressmen  in  general  and  the  country  should  keep  in  touch  with 
them  and  should  influence  them. 

We  have  considered  the  provincial  elections  which,  it  is  said,  may 
take  place  early  next  year.  The  time  is  far  off  yet,  and  it  is  by  no  means 
impossible  that  these  elections  may  not  take  place  for  a  much  longer 
time,  or  may  not  take  place  at  all,  and  the  new  Act  may  take  its  right 
ful  place  in  oblivion.  Much  may  happen  in  the  course  of  the  next  year, 
and  war  is  ever  on  the  horizon,  to  upset  the  schemes  and  timetables 
of  our  rulers.  But  we  cannot  speculate  on  this,  and  we  have  to  make 
provision  for  contingencies.  That  decision  might  even  have  been  de 
layed,  but  dangerous  and  compromising  tendencies  seek  to  influence 
Congress  policy,  and  the  Congress  cannot  remain  silent  when  the  issue 
is  raised  and  its  whole  future  is  in  the  balance. 

The  provincial  legislatures  may  come,  but  few  persons,  I  imagine, 

405 


are  confident  about  the  coming  of  the  federal  part  of  this  unholy  struc 
ture.  So  far  as  we  are  concerned,  we  shall  fight  against  it  to  our  utmost 
strength,  and  the  primary  object  of  our  creating  deadlocks  in  the 
provinces  and  making  the  new  Act  difficult  of  functioning,  is  to  kill 
the  federation.  With  the  federation  dead,  the  provincial  end  of  the 
Act  will  also  go  and  leave  the  slate  clean  for  the  people  of  India  to 
write  on.  That  writing,  whatever  it  be,  can  never  admit  the  right  of 
the  Indian  states  to  continue  as  feudal  and  autocratic  monarchies.  They 
have  long  survived  their  day,  propped  up  by  an  alien  Power,  and  have 
become  the  strangest  anomalies  in  a  changing  world.  The  future  has 
no  place  for  autocracy  or  feudalism;  a  free  India  cannot  tolerate  the 
subjection  of  many  of  her  children  and  their  deprivation  of  human 
rights,  nor  can  it  ever  agree  to  a  dissection  of  its  body  and  a  cutting 
up  of  its  limbs.  If  we  stand  for  any  human,  political,  social,  or  eco 
nomic  rights  for  ourselves,  we  stand  for  those  identical  rights  for  the 
people  of  the  states. 

I  have  referred  to  the  terrible  suppression  of  civil  liberties  by  the 
British  Government  in  India.  But  in  the  states  matters  are  even  worse, 
and,  though  we  know  that  the  real  power  behind  those  states  is  that 
of  British  imperialism,  this  tragic  suppression  of  our  brothers  by  their 
own  countrymen  is  of  painful  significance.  Indian  rulers  and  their 
ministers  have  spoken  and  acted  increasingly  in  the  approved  fascist 
manner,  and  their  record  during  the  past  few  years  especially  has  been 
one  of  aggressive  opposition  to  our  national  demands.  States  which  are 
considered  advanced  ban  the  Congress  organization  and  offer  insult 
to  our  national  flag  and  decree  new  laws  to  suppress  the  press.  What 
shall  we  say  of  the  more  backward  and  primitive  states? 

There  is  one  more  matter  concerning  the  Constitution  Act  which 
has  given  rise  to  much  controversy.  This  is  the  communal  decision. 
Many  people  have  condemned  it  strongly  and,  I  think,  rightly;  few 
have  a  good  word  for  it.  My  own  viewpoint  is,  however,  somewhat 
different  from  that  of  others.  I  am  not  concerned  so  much  with  what 
it  gives  to  this  group  or  that  but  more  so  with  the  basic  idea  behind  it. 
It  seeks  to  divide  India  into  numerous  separate  compartments,  chiefly 
on  a  religious  basis,  and  thus  makes  the  development  of  democracy 
and  economic  policy  very  difficult.  Indeed,  the  communal  decision  and 
democracy  can  never  go  together.  We  have  to  admit  that,  under  present 
circumstances,  and  so  long  as  our  politics  are  dominated  by  middle- 
class  elements,  we  cannot  do  away  with  communalism  altogether.  But 
to  make  a  necessary  exception  in  favor  of  our  Moslem  or  Sikh  friends 

406 


is  one  thing,  to  spread  this  evil  principle  to  numerous  other  groups 
and  thus  to  divide  up  the  electoral  machinery  and  the  legislature  into 
many  compartments  is  a  far  more  dangerous  proposition.  If  we  wish 
to  function  democratically,  the  proposed  communal  arrangement  will 
have  to  go,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  will  go.  But  it  will  not  go  by 
the  methods  adopted  by  the  aggressive  opponents  of  the  decision. 
These  methods  result  inevitably  in  perpetuating  the  decision,  for  they 
help  in  continuing  a  situation  which  prevents  any  reconsideration. 

I  have  not  been  enamored  of  the  past  Congress  policy  in  regard  to 
the  communal  question  and  its  attempts  to  make  pacts  and  compro 
mises.  Yet  essentially  I  think  it  was  based  on  a  sound  instinct.  First 
of  all,  the  Congress  always  put  independence  first  and  other  questions, 
including  the  communal  one,  second,  and  refused  to  allow  any  of  those 
other  questions  to  take  pride  of  place.  Secondly,  it  argued  that  the 
communal  problem  had  arisen  from  a  certain  set  of  circumstances 
which  enabled  the  third  party  to  exploit  the  other  two.  In  order  to 
solve  it,  one  had  either  to  get  rid  of  the  third  party  (and  that  meant 
independence),  or  get  rid  of  that  set  of  circumstances,  which  meant  a 
friendly  approach  by  the  parties  concerned  and  an  attempt  to  soften 
the  prejudice  and  fear  that  filled  them.  Thirdly,  that  the  majority 
community  must  show  generosity  in  the  matter  to  allay  the  fear  and 
suspicion  that  minorities,  even  though  unreasonably,  might  have. 

That  analysis  is,  I  think,  perfectly  sound.  I  would  add  that,  in  my 
opinion,  a  real  solution  of  the  problem  will  only  come  when  economic 
issues,  affecting  all  religious  groups  and  cutting  across  communal 
boundaries,  arise.  Apart  from  the  upper  middle  classes,  who  live  in 
hopes  of  office  and  patronage,  the  masses  and  the  lower  middle  classes 
have  to  face  identical  political  and  economic  problems.  It  is  odd  and 
significant  that  all  the  communal  demands  of  any  group,  of  which  so 
much  is  heard,  have  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  these  problems  of  the 
masses  and  the  lower  middle  classes. 

It  is  also  significant  that  the  principal  communal  leaders,  Hindu  or 
Moslem  or  others,  are  political  reactionaries,  quite  apart  from  the  com 
munal  question.  It  is  sad  to  think  how  they  have  sided  with  British 
imperialism  in  vital  matters,  how  they  have  given  their  approval  to  the 
suppression  of  civil  liberty,  how  during  these  years  of  agony  they  have 
sought  to  gain  narrow  profit  for  their  group  at  the  expense  of  the 
larger  cause  of  freedom.  With  them  there  can  be  no  co-operation,  for 
that  would  mean  co-operation  with  reaction.  But  I  am  sure  that  with 
the  larger  masses  and  the  middle  classes,  who  may  have  temporarily 

407 


been  led  away  by  the  specious  claims  of  their  communal  leaders,  there 
must  be  the  fullest  co-operation,  and  out  of  that  co-operation  will  come 
a  fairer  solution  of  this  problem. 

I  am  afraid  I  cannot  get  excited  over  this  communal  issue,  important 
as  it  is  temporarily.  It  is,  after  all,  a  side  issue,  and  it  can  have  no  real 
importance  in  the  larger  scheme  of  things.  Those  who  think  of  it  as 
the  major  issue  think  in  terms  of  British  imperialism  continuing  per 
manently  in  this  country.  Without  that  basis  of  thought,  they  would 
not  attach  so  much  importance  to  one  of  its  inevitable  offshoots.  I 
have  no  such  fear,  and  so  my  vision  of  a  future  India  contains  neither 
imperialism  nor  communalism. 

Yet  the  present  difficulty  remains  and  has  to  be  faced.  Especially  our 
sympathy  must  go  to  the  people  of  Bengal,  who  have  suffered  most 
from  these  communal  decisions,  as  well  as  from  the  heavy  hand  of  the 
Government.  Whenever  opportunity  offers  to  improve  their  situation 
in  a  friendly  way,  we  must  seize  it.  But  always  the  background  of 
our  action  must  be  the  national  struggle  for  independence  and  the 
social  freedom  of  the  masses. 

I  have  referred  previously  to  the  growing  divorce  between  our  or 
ganization  and  the  masses.  Individually  many  of  us  still  have  influence 
with  the  masses  and  our  word  carries  weight  with  them,  and  who  can 
measure  the  love  and  reverence  of  India's  millions  for  our  leader, 
Gandhiji?  And  yet  organizationally  we  have  lost  that  intimate  touch 
that  we  had.  The  social  reform  activities  of  the  \hadi  and  village 
industries  and  Harijan  organizations  keep  large  numbers  of  our  com 
rades  in  touch  with  the  masses,  and  those  contacts  bear  fruit.  But  they 
are  essentially  nonpolitical,  and  so,  politically,  we  have  largely  lost 
touch.  There  are  many  reasons  for  this,  and  some  are  beyond  our  con 
trol.  Our  present  Congress  constitution  is,  I  feel,  not  helpful  in  develop 
ing  these  contacts  or  in  encouraging  enough  the  democratic  spirit  in 
its  primary  committees.  These  committees  are  practically  rolls  of  voters 
who  meet  only  to  elect  delegates  or  representatives,  and  take  no  part 
in  discussion  or  the  formation  of  policy. 

It  is  interesting  to  read  in  that  monumental  and  impressive  record, 
the  Webbs'  new  book  on  Russia,  how  the  whole  Soviet  structure  is 
based  on  a  wide  and  living  democratic  foundation.  Russia  is  not  sup 
posed  to  be  a  democratic  country  after  the  Western  pattern,  and  yet 
we  find  the  essentials  of  democracy  present  in  far  greater  degree 
among  the  masses  there  than  anywhere  else.  The  six  hundred  thou 
sand  towns  and  villages  there  have  a  vast  democratic  organization, 

408 


each  with  its  own  soviet,  constantly  discussing,  debating,  criticizing, 
helping  in  the  formulation  of  policy,  electing  representatives  to  higher 
committees.  This  organization  of  citizens  covers  the  entire  population 
over  1 8  years  of  age.  There  is  yet  another  vast  organization  of  the 
people  as  producers,  and  a  third,  equally  vast,  as  consumers.  And  thus 
scores  of  millions  of  men  and  women  are  constantly  taking  part  in  the 
discussion  of  public  affairs  and  actually  in  the  administration  of  the 
country.  There  has  been  no  such  practical  application  of  the  democratic 
process  in  history. 

All  this  is,  of  course,  utterly  beyond  us,  for  it  requires  a  change  in 
the  political  and  economic  structure  and  much  else  before  we  can 
experiment  that  way.  But  we  can  profit  by  that  example  still  and  try 
in  our  own  limited  way  to  develop  democracy  on  the  lowest  rungs  of 
the  Congress  ladder  and  make  the  primary  committee  a  living  organ 
ization. 

An  additional  method  for  us  to  increase  our  contacts  with  the  masses 
is  to  organize  them  as  producers  and  then  affiliate  such  organizations 
to  the  Congress  or  have  full  cooperation  between  the  two.  Such  or 
ganizations  of  producers  as  exist  today,  such  as  trade-unions  and  peas 
ant  unions,  as  well  as  other  anti-imperialist  organizations,  could  be 
brought  within  this  sphere  of  mutual  co-operation  for  the  good  of  the 
masses  and  the  struggle  for  national  freedom.  Thus  Congress  could 
have  an  individual  as  well  as  a  corporate  membership  and,  retaining 
its  individual  character,  could  influence,  and  be  influenced  by,  other 
mass  elements. 

These  are  big  changes  that  I  have  hinted  at,  and  I  am  by  no  means 
sure  how  they  can  be  brought  about,  or  whether  it  is  possible  to  go  far 
in  this  direction  in  the  near  future.  Still,  we  must  move  to  some  extent 
at  least  if  we  are  to  have  our  roots  in  the  soil  of  India  and  draw  life 
and  strength  from  its  millions.  The  subject  is  fascinating  but  compli 
cated  and  can  only  be  tackled  by  an  expert  committee,  which  I  trust 
will  be  appointed  on  behalf  of  the  Congress.  The  report  of  that  com 
mittee  must  be  freely  discussed  so  as  to  get  the  widest  backing  for  it. 

All  this  will  take  us  to  the  next  Congress.  Meanwhile  perhaps  some 
urgent  changes  are  needed  in  our  constitution  to  remove  anomalies 
and  avoid  difficulties.  Owing  to  my  absence,  I  have  had  litde  experience 
of  the  working  of  the  new  constitution  and  cannot  make  any  concrete 
suggestions.  The  reduction  in  the  numbers  of  delegates  and  All-India 
Congress  Committee  members  would  be,  to  some  extent,  desirable  if 
there  was  a  background  of  widespread  activity  in  the  primary  and 

409 


secondary  committees.  Without  it,  it  makes  us  even  less  responsive  to 
mass  opinion,  and,  therefore,  an  increase  seems  desirable.  But  the  real 
solution  is  to  increase  the  interest  and  day-to-day  activity  of  the  lower 
committees, 

I  have  been  told  that  the  manual-labor  franchise  has  not  been  a 
success  and  has  led  to  a  great  deal  of  evasion.  If  that  is  so,  a  change  is 
desirable,  for  a  constitution  must  be  such  as  can  be  worked  easily  and 
without  subterfuge. 

The  Congress  is  an  all-inclusive  body  and  represents  many  interests, 
but  essentially  it  is  a  political  organization  with  various  subsidiary  and 
allied  organizations,  like  the  Spinners'  Association  and  the  Village  In 
dustries  Association.  These  allied  organizations  work  in  the  economic 
field,  but  they  do  not  seek  directly  to  remove  the  burdens  of  the  peas 
antry  under  the  present  system  of  land  tenure.  Nor  can  the  Congress, 
situated  as  it  is,  wholly  function  as  a  peasant  organization,  although 
in  many  provinces  it  has  espoused  the  cause  of  the  peasantry  and 
brought  them  much  relief.  It  seems  to  me  necessary  that  the  Congress 
should  encourage  the  formation  of  peasant  unions  as  well  as  workers' 
unions,  and  co-operate  with  such  as  already  exist,  so  that  the  day-to-day 
struggle  of  the  masses  might  be  continued  on  the  basis  of  their  eco 
nomic  demands  and  other  grievances.  This  identification  of  the  Con 
gress  with  the  economic  struggle  of  the  masses  will  bring  us  nearer  to 
them  and  nearer  to  freedom  than  anything  else.  I  would  welcome  also 
the  organization  of  other  special  interests,  like  those  of  the  women,  in 
the  general  framework  of  our  national  struggle  for  freedom.  The  Con 
gress  would  be  in  a  position  to  co-ordinate  all  these  vital  activities  and 
thus  to  base  itself  on  the  widest  possible  mass  foundation. 

There  has  been  some  talk  of  a  militant  program  and  militant  action. 
I  do  not  know  what  exactly  is  meant,  but,  if  direct  action  on  a  national 
scale  or  civil  disobedience  are  meant,  then  I  would  say  that  I  see  no 
near  prospect  of  them.  Let  us  not  indulge  in  tall  talk  before  we  are 
ready  for  big  action.  Our  business  today  is  to  put  our  house  in  order, 
to  sweep  away  the  defeatist  mentality  of  some  people,  and  to  build  up 
our  organization  with  its  mass  affiliations,  as  well  as  to  work  among 
the  masses.  The  time  may  come,  and  that  sooner  perhaps  than  we  ex 
pect,  when  we  might  be  put  to  the  test.  Let  us  get  ready  for  that  test. 
Civil  disobedience  and  the  like  cannot  be  switched  on  and  off  when 
we  feel  like  doing  so.  It  depends  on  many  things,  some  of  which  are 
beyond  our  control,  but  in  these  days  of  revolutionary  change  and  con- 

410 


stantly  recurring  crises  in  the  world,  events  often  move  faster  than  we 
do.  We  shall  not  lack  for  opportunities. 

The  major  problem  of  India  today  is  that  of  the  land — of  rural 
poverty  and  unemployment  and  a  thoroughly  out-of-date  land  system. 
A  curious  combination  of  circumstances  has  held  back  India  during 
the  past  few  generations,  and  the  political  and  economic  garments  it 
wears  no  longer  fit  it  and  are  torn  and  tattered.  In  some  ways  our 
agrarian  conditions  are  not  unlike  those  of  France  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  ago,  prior  to  the  great  revolution.  They  cannot  continue  so  for 
long.  At  the  same  time  we  have  become  parts  of  international  capi 
talism,  and  we  suffer  the  pains  and  crises  which  afflict  this  decaying 
system.  As  a  result  of  these  elemental  urges  and  conflicts  of  world 
forces,  what  will  emerge  in  India  none  can  say.  But  we  can  say  with 
confidence  that  the  present  order  has  reached  the  evening  of  its  day, 
and  it  is  up  to  us  to  try  to  mold  the  future  as  we  would  like  it  to  be. 

The  world  is  filled  with  rumors  and  alarms  of  war.  In  Abyssinia 
bloody  and  cruel  war  has  already  gone  on  for  many  months,  and  we 
have  watched  anew  how  hungry  and  predatory  imperialism  behaves 
in  its  mad  search  for  colonial  domains.  We  have  watched  also  with 
admiration  the  brave  fight  of  the  Ethiopians  for  their  freedom  against 
heavy  odds.  You  will  permit  me,  I  feel  sure,  to  greet  them  on  your  be 
half  and  express  our  deep  sympathy  for  them.  Their  struggle  is  some 
thing  more  than  a  local  struggle.  It  is  one  of  the  first  effective  checks 
by  an  African  people  on  an  advancing  imperialism,  and  already  it  has 
had  far-reaching  consequences. 

In  the  Far  East  also  war  hovers  on  the  horizon,  and  we  see  an  East 
ern  imperialism  advancing  methodically  and  pitilessly  over  ancient 
China  and  dreaming  of  world  empire.  Imperialism  shows  its  claws 
wherever  it  may  be,  in  the  West  or  in  the  East 

In  Europe  an  aggressive  fascism  or  Nazi-ism  steps  continuously  on 
the  brink  of  war,  and  vast  armed  camps  arise  in  preparation  for  what 
seems  to  be  the  inevitable  end  of  all  this.  Nations  join  hands  to  fight 
other  nations,  and  progressive  forces  in  each  country  ally  themselves 
to  fight  the  fascist  menace. 

Where  do  we  come  in  in  this  awful  game?  What  part  shall  we  play 
in  this  approaching  tragedy  ?  It  is  difficult  to  say.  But  we  must  not  per 
mit  ourselves  to  be  passive  tools  exploited  for  imperialist  ends.  It  must 
be  our  right  to  say  whether  we  join  a  war  or  not,  and  without  that 
consent  there  should  be  no  co-operation  from  us.  When  the  time 
comes,  we  may  have  little  say  in  the  matter,  and  so  it  becomes  neces- 

411 


sary  for  the  Congress  to  declare  clearly  now  its  opposition  to  India's 
participation  in  any  imperialist  war,  and  every  war  that  will  be  waged 
by  imperialist  Powers  will  be  an  imperialist  war,  whatever  the  ex 
cuses  put  forward  might  be.  Therefore  we  must  keep  out  of  it  and 
not  allow  Indian  lives  and  Indian  money  to  be  sacrificed. 

To  the  progressive  forces  of  the  world,  to  those  who  stand  for 
human  freedom  and  the  breaking  of  political  and  social  bonds,  we 
offer  our  full  co-operation  in  their  struggle  against  imperialism  and 
fascist  reaction,  for  we  realize  that  our  struggle  is  a  common  one.  Our 
grievance  is  not  against  any  people  or  any  country  as  such,  and  we 
know  that  even  in  imperialist  England,  which  throtdes  us,  there  are 
many  who  do  not  love  imperialism  and  who  stand  for  freedom. 

During  this  period  of  difficulty  and  storm  and  stress,  inevitably  our 
minds  and  hearts  turn  to  our  great  leader  who  has  guided  us  and  in 
spired  us  by  his  dynamic  personality  these  many  years.  Physical  ill- 
health  prevents  him  now  from  taking  his  full  share  in  public  activities. 
Our  good  wishes  go  out  to  him  for  his  rapid  and  complete  recovery, 
and  with  those  wishes  is  the  selfish  desire  to  have  him  back  again 
among  us.  We  have  differed  with  him  in  the  past,  and  we  shall  differ 
with  him  in  the  future  about  many  things,  and  it  is  right  that  each 
one  of  us  should  act  up  to  his  convictions.  But  the  bonds  that  hold  us 
together  are  stronger  and  more  vital  than  our  differences,  and  the 
pledges  we  took  together  still  ring  in  our  ears.  How  many  of  us  have 
that  passionate  desire  for  Indian  independence  and  the  raising  of  our 
poverty-stricken  masses  which  consumes  him?  Many  things  he  taught 
us  long  years  ago,  it  seems  now — fearlessness  and  discipline  and  the 
will  to  sacrifice  ourselves  for  the  larger  cause.  That  lesson  may  have 
grown  dim,  but  we  have  not  forgotten  it,  nor  can  we  ever  forget  him 
who  has  made  us  what  we  are  and  raised  India  again  from  the  depths. 
The  pledge  of  independence  that  we  took  together  still  remains  to  be 
redeemed,  and  we  await  again  for  him  to  guide  us  with  his  wise 
counsel. 

But  no  leader,  however  great  he  be,  can  shoulder  the  burden  single- 
handed;  we  must  all  share  it  to  the  best  of  our  ability  and  not  seek 
helplessly  to  rely  on  others  to  perform  miracles.  Leaders  come  and 
go;  many  of  our  best-loved  captains  and  comrades  have  left  us  all  too 
soon,  but  India  goes  on,  and  so  does  India's  struggle  for  freedom.  It 
may  be  that  many  of  us  must  suffer  still  and  die  so  that  India  may 
live  and  be  free.  The  promised  land  may  yet  be  far  from  us,  and  we 
may  have  to  march  wearily  through  the  deserts,  but  who  will  take 

412 


away  from  us  that  deathless  hope  which  has  survived  the  scaffold  and 
immeasurable  suffering  and  sorrow;  who  will  dare  to  crush  the  spirit 
o£  India  which  has  found  rebirth  again  and  again  after  so  many  cruci 
fixions? 

APPENDIX  C 

PRESIDENTIAL  ADDRESS  BY  JAWAHARLAL  NEHRU  AT  50TH  SESSION  OF 
INDIAN  NATIONAL  CONGRESS,  AT  FAIZPUR,  DECEMBER  1936 

COMRADES, 

Eight  and  a  half  months  ago  I  addressed  you  from  this  tribune,  and 
now,  at  your  bidding,  I  am  here  again.  I  am  grateful  to  you  for  this 
repeated  expression  of  your  confidence,  deeply  sensible  of  the  love  and 
affection  that  have  accompanied  it,  somewhat  overburdened  by  this 
position  of  high  honor  and  authority  that  you  would  have  me  occupy 
again;  and  yet  I  am  fearful  of  this  responsibility.  Men  and  women 
who  have  to  carry  the  burden  of  responsible  positions  in  the  world  to 
day  have  a  heavy  and  unenviable  task,  and  many  are  unable  to  cope 
with  it.  In  India  that  task  is  as  heavy  as  anywhere  else,  and,  if  the 
present  is  full  of  difficulty,  the  veil  of  the  future  hides  perhaps  vaster 
and  more  intricate  problems.  Is  it  surprising  then  that  I  accept  your 
gracious  gift  with  hesitation? 

Before  we  consider  the  problems  that  face  us,  we  must  give  thought 
to  our  comrades— those  who  have  left  us  during  these  past  few  months 
and  those  who  languish  year  after  year,  often  with  no  end  in  prospect, 
in  prison  and  detention  camp.  Two  well-beloved  colleagues  have  gone 
— Mukhtar  Ahmad  Ansari  and  Abbas  Tyabji,  the  bearers  of  names 
honored  in  Congress  history,  dear  to  all  of  us  as  friends  and  comrades, 
brave  and  wise  counselors  in  times  of  difficulty. 

To  our  comrades  in  prison  or  in  detention  we  send  greeting.  Their 
travail  continues  and  it  grows,  and  only  recently  we  have  heard  with 
horror  of  the  suicide  of  three  detenus  who  found  life  intolerable  for 
them  in  the  fair  province  of  Bengal,  whose  young  men  and  women  in 
such  large  numbers  live  in  internment  without  end.  We  have  an  anal 
ogy  elsewhere,  in  Nazi  Germany,  where  concentration  camps  flourish 
and  suicides  are  not  uncommon. 

Soon  after  the  last  Congress  I  had  to  nominate  the  Working  Com 
mittee,  and  I  included  in  this  our  comrade,  Subhas  Chandra  Bose.  But 
you  know  how  he  was  snatched  away  from  us  on  arrival  at  Bombay, 

4*3 


and  ever  since  then  he  has  been  kept  in  internment  despite  failing 
health.  Our  Committee  has  been  deprived  of  his  counsel,  and  I  have 
missed  throughout  the  year  this  brave  comrade  on  whom  we  all 
counted  so  much.  Helplessly  we  watch  this  crushing  of  our  men  and 
women,  but  this  helplessness  in  the  present  steels  our  resolve  to  end 
this  intolerable  condition  of  our  people. 

One  who  was  not  with  us  at  Lucknow  has  come  back  to  us  after 
long  internment  and  prison.  We  offer  cordial  welcome  to  Khan  Abdul 
Ghaffar  Khan  for  his  own  brave  self  as  well  as  for  the  sake  of  the 
people  of  the  Frontier  Province,  whom  he  has  so  effectively  and  gal 
lantly  led  in  India's  struggle  for  freedom.  But,  though  he  is  with  us, 
he  may  not,  so  the  orders  of  the  British  Government  in  India  run,  go 
back  home  or  enter  his  province  or  even  the  Punjab.  And  in  that 
province  of  his  the  Congress  organization  is  still  illegal  and  most  politi 
cal  activities  prevented. 

I  must  also  offer  on  your  behalf  warm  welcome  to  one  who,  though 
young,  is  an  old  and  well-tried  soldier  in  India's  fight  for  freedom. 
Comrade  M.  N.  Roy  has  just  come  to  us  after  a  long  and  most  dis 
tressing  period  in  prison,  but,  though  shaken  up  in  body,  he  comes 
with  fresh  mind  and  heart,  eager  to  take  his  part  in  that  old  struggle 
that  knows  no  end  till  it  ends  in  success. 

The  elements  have  been  unusually  cruel  to  us  during  these  past  few 
months,  and  famine  and  floods  and  droughts  have  afflicted  many  prov 
inces  and  brought  great  suffering  to  millions  of  our  people.  Recently 
a  great  cyclone  descended  on  Guntur  district  in  the  South,  causing 
tremendous  damage  and  rendering  large  numbers  homeless,  with  all 
their  belongings  destroyed.  We  may  not  complain  of  this  because  the 
elements  are  still  largely  beyond  human  control.  But  the  wit  of  man 
can  find  a  remedy  for  recurring  floods  due  to  known  causes,  and  make 
provision  for  the  consequences  of  droughts  and  the  like,  and  organize 
adequate  relief  for  the  victims  of  natural  catastrophes.  But  that  wit 
is  lacking  among  those  who  control  our  destinies,  and  our  people,  al 
ways  living  on  the  verge  of  utter  destitution,  can  face  no  additional 
shock  without  going  under. 

We  are  all  engrossed  in  India  at  present  in  the  provincial  elections 
that  will  take  place  soon.  The  Congress  has  put  up  over  a  thousand 
candidates,  and  this  business  of  election  ties  us  up  in  many  ways,  and 
yet  I  would  ask  you,  as  I  did  at  Lucknow,  to  take  heed  of  the  terrible 
and  fascinating  drama  of  the  world.  Our  destinies  are  linked  up  with 
it3  and  our  fate,  like  the  fate  of  every  country,  will  depend  on  the  out- 

414 


come  of  the  conflicts  of  rival  forces  and  ideas  that  are  taking  place 
everywhere.  Again  I  would  remind  you  that  our  problem  of  national 
freedom  as  well  as  social  freedom  is  but  a  part  of  this  great  world 
problem,  and  to  understand  ourselves  we  must  understand  others  also. 

Even  during  these  last  eight  months  vast  changes  have  come  over 
the  international  situation,  the  crisis  deepens.,  the  rival  forces  of  prog 
ress  and  reaction  come  to  closer  grips  with  each  other,  and  we  go  at 
a  terrific  pace  toward  the  abyss  of  war.  In  Europe  fascism  has  been 
pursuing  its  triumphant  course,  speaking  ever  in  a  more  strident  voice, 
introducing  an  open  gangsterism  in  international  affairs.  Based  as  it  is 
on  hatred  and  violence  and  dreams  of  war,  it  leads  inevitably,  unless 
it  is  checked  in  time,  to  world  war.  We  have  seen  Abyssinia  succumb 
to  it;  we  see  today  the  horror  and  tragedy  of  Spain. 

How  has  this  fascism  grown  so  rapidly,  so  that  now  it  threatens  to 
dominate  Europe  and  the  world?  To  understand  this,  one  must  seek 
a  clue  in  British  foreign  policy.  This  policy,  in  spite  of  its  outward 
variations  and  frequent  hesitations,  has  been  one  of  consistent  support 
of  Nazi  Germany.  The  Anglo-German  Naval  Treaty  threw  France 
into  the  arms  of  Italy  and  led  to  the  rape  of  Abyssinia.  Behind  all  the 
talk  of  sanctions  against  Italy  later  on,  there  was  the  refusal  by  the 
British  Government  to  impose  any  effective  sanction.  Even  when  the 
United  States  of  America  offered  to  co-operate  in  imposing  the  oil 
sanction,  Britain  refused  and  was  content  to  see  the  bombing  of  Ethio 
pians  and  the  breaking  up  of  the  League  of  Nations  system  of  collec 
tive  security.  True,  the  British  Government  always  talked  in  terms  of 
the  League  and  in  defense  of  collective  security,  but  its  actions  belied 
its  words  and  were  meant  to  leave  the  field  open  to  fascist  aggression. 
Nazi  Germany  took  step  after  step  to  humiliate  the  League  and  upset 
the  European  order,  and  ever  the  British  "National"  Government  fol 
lowed  meekly  in  its  trail  and  gave  it  its  whispered  blessing. 

Spain  came  then  as  an  obvious  and  final  test,  a  democratic  govern 
ment  assailed  by  a  fascist-military  rebellion  aided  by  mercenary  foreign 
troops.  Here  again  while  fascist  Powers  helped  the  rebels,  the  League 
Powers  proclaimed  a  futile  policy  of  nonintervention,  apparently  de 
signed  to  prevent  the  Spanish  democratic  government  from  combating 
effectively  the  rebel  menace. 

So  we  find  British  imperialism  inclining  more  and  more  toward  the 
fascist  Powers,  though  the  language  it  uses,  as  is  its  old  habit,  is  demo 
cratic  in  texture  and  pious  in  tone.  And  because  of  this  contradiction 
between  words  and  deeds,  British  prestige  has  sunk  in  Europe  and 

4*5 


the  world  and  is  lower  today  than  it  has  ever  been  for  many  gen 
erations. 

So  in  the  world  today  these  two  great  forces  strive  for  mastery — 
those  who  labor  for  democratic  and  social  freedom  and  those  who  wish 
to  crush  this  freedom  under  imperialism  and  fascism.  In  this  struggle 
Britain,  though  certainly  not  the  mass  of  the  British  people,  inevitably 
joins  the  ranks  of  reaction.  And  the  struggle  today  is  fiercest  and  clear 
est  in  Spain;  on  the  outcome  of  that  depends  war  or  peace  in  the 
world  in  the  near  future,  fascist  domination  or  the  scotching  of  fascism 
and  imperialism.  That  struggle  has  many  lessons  for  us,  and  perhaps 
the  most  important  of  these  is  the  failure  of  the  democratic  process  in 
resolving  basic  conflicts  and  introducing  vital  changes  to  bring  social 
and  economic  conditions  in  line  with  world  conditions.  That  failure 
is  not  caused  by  those  who  desire  or  work  for  these  changes.  They  ac 
cept  the  democratic  method,  but,  when  this  method  threatens  to  affect 
great  vested  interests  and  privileged  classes,  these  classes  refuse  to  ac 
cept  the  democratic  process  and  rebel  against  it.  For  them  democracy 
means  their  own  domination  and  the  protection  of  their  special  inter 
ests.  When  it  fails  to  do  this,  they  have  no  further  use  for  it  and  try 
to  break  it  up.  And  in  their  attempt  to  break  it,  they  do  not  scruple 
to  use  any  and  every  method  to  ally  themselves  with  foreign  and  anti- 
national  forces.  Calling  themselves  nationalists  and  patriots,  they  em 
ploy  mercenary  armies  of  foreigners  to  kill  their  own  kith  and  kin  and 
enslave  their  own  people. 

In  Spain  today  our  battles  are  being  fought,  and  we  watch  this 
struggle  not  merely  with  the  sympathy  of  friendly  outsiders,  but  with 
the  painful  anxiety  of  those  who  are  themselves  involved  in  it.  We 
have  seen  our  hopes  wither,  and  a  blank  despair  has  sometimes  seized 
us  at  this  tragic  destruction  of  Spain's  manhood  and  womanhood.  But 
in  the  darkest  moments  the  flame  that  symbolizes  the  hope  of  Spanish 
freedom  has  burned  brightly  and  proclaimed  to  the  world  its  eventual 
triumph.  So  many  have  died,  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  that  the 
Spanish  Republic  might  live  and  freedom  might  endure.  We  see  in 
Spain,  as  so  often  elsewhere,  the  tragic  destruction  of  the  walls  of  the 
citadel  of  freedom.  How  often  they  have  been  lost  and  then  retaken, 
how  often  destroyed  and  rebuilt! 

I  wish,  and  many  of  you  will  wish  with  me,  that  we  could  give 
some  effective  assistance  to  our  comrades  in  Spain,  something  more 
than  sympathy,  however  deeply  felt.  The  call  for  help  has  come  to 
us  from  those  sorely  stricken  people,  and  we  cannot  remain  silent  to 

416 


that  appeal.  And  yet  I  do  not  know  what  we  can  do  in  our  helpless 
ness  when  we  are  struggling  ourselves  against  an  imperialism  that 
binds  and  crushes. 

So  I  would  like  to  stress  before  you,  as  I  did  before,  this  organic 
connection  between  world  events,  this  action  and  interaction  between 
one  and  the  other.  Thus  we  shall  understand  a  little  this  complicated 
picture  of  the  world  today,  a  unity  in  spite  of  its  amazing  diversity 
and  conflicts.  In  Europe,  as  in  the  Far  East,  there  is  continuous  trouble, 
and  everywhere  there  is  ferment.  The  Arab  struggle  against  British 
imperialism  in  Palestine  is  as  much  part  of  this  great  world  conflict 
as  India's  struggle  for  freedom.  Democracy  and  fascism,  nationalism 
and  imperialism,  socialism  and  a  decaying  capitalism,  combat  each 
other  in  the  world  of  ideas,  and  this  conflict  develops  on  the  material 
plane,  and  bayonets  and  bombs  take  the  place  of  votes  in  the  struggle 
for  power.  Changing  conditions  in  the  world  demand  a  new  political 
and  economic  orientation,  and,  if  this  does  not  come  soon,  there  is 
friction  and  conflict.  Gradually  this  leads  to  a  revolution  in  the  minds 
of  men,  and  this  seeks  to  materialize,  and  every  delay  in  this  change 
over  leads  to  further  conflict.  The  existing  equilibrium  having  gone, 
giving  place  to  no  other,  there  is  deterioration,  reaction,  and  disaster. 
It  is  this  disaster  that  faces  us  in  the  world  today,  and  war  on  a  terrible 
scale  is  an  ever-present  possibility.  Except  for  the  fascist  Powers,  every 
country  and  people  dreads  this  war,  and  yet  they  all  prepare  for  it 
feverishly,  and  in  doing  so  they  line  up  on  this  side  or  that.  The  middle 
groups  fade  out  or,  ghostlike,  they  flit  about,  unreal,  disillusioned,  self- 
tortured,  ever-doubting.  That  has  been  the  fate  of  the  old  liberalism 
everywhere,  though  in  India  perhaps  those  who  call  themselves  Liber 
als,  and  others  who  think  in  their  way,  have  yet  to  come  out  of  the 
fog  of  complacency  that  envelops  them.  But  we 

Move  with  new  desires. 

For  where  we  used  to  build  and  love 

Is  no  man's  land,  and  only  ghosts  can  live 

^Between  two  fires. 

What  are  these  new  desires?  The  wish  to  put  an  end  to  this  mad 
world  system  which  breeds  war  and  conflict  and  which  crushes  mil 
lions;  to  abolish  poverty  and  unemployment  and  release  the  energies 
of  vast  numbers  of  people  and  utilize  them  for  the  progress  and  bet 
terment  of  humanity;  to  build  where  today  we  destroy.  During  the 
past  eight  months  I  have  wandered  a  great  deal  in  this  vast  land  of 
ours,  and  I  have  seen  again  the  throbbing  agony  of  India's  masses,  the 

4*7 


call  o£  their  eyes  for  relief  from  the  terrible  burdens  they  carry.  That 
is  our  problem;  all  others  are  secondary  and  merely  lead  up  to  it.  To 
solve  that  problem  we  shall  have  to  end  the  imperialistic  control  and 
exploitation  of  India.  But  what  is  this  imperialism  of  today?  It  is  not 
merely  the  physical  possession  of  one  country  by  another;  its  roots  lie 
deeper.  Modern  imperialism  is  an  outgrowth  of  capitalism  and  cannot 
be  separated  from  it. 

It  is  because  of  this  that  we  cannot  understand  our  problems  with 
out  understanding  the  implications  of  imperialism  and  socialism.  The 
disease  is  deep-seated  and  requires  a  radical  and  revolutionary  remedy, 
and  that  remedy  is  the  socialist  structure  of  society.  We  do  not  fight 
for  socialism  in  Indian  today,  for  we  have  to  go  far  before  we  can  act  in 
terms  of  socialism,  but  socialism  comes  in  here  and  now  to  help  us  to 
understand  our  problem  and  point  out  the  path  to  its  solution,  and  to 
tell  us  the  real  content  of  the  Swaraj  to  come.  With  no  proper  under 
standing  of  the  problem,  our  actions  are  likely  to  be  erratic,  purpose 
less,  and  ineffective. 

The  Congress  stands  today  for  full  democracy  in  India  and  fights 
for  a  democratic  state,  not  for  socialism.  It  is  anti-imperialist  and 
strives  for  great  changes  in  our  political  and  economic  structure.  I  hope 
that  the  logic  of  events  will  lead  it  to  socialism,  for  that  seems  to  me 
the  only  remedy  for  India's  ills.  But  the  urgent  and  vital  problem  for 
us  today  is  political  independence  and  the  establishment  of  a  demo 
cratic  state.  And  because  of  this,  the  Congress  must  line  up  with  all 
the  progressive  forces  of  the  world  and  must  stand  for  world  peace. 
Recently  there  has  taken  place  in  Europe  a  significant  development  in 
the  peace  movement.  The  World  Peace  Congress,  held  at  Brussels  in 
September  last,  brought  together  numerous  mass  organizations  on  a 
common  platform  and  gave  an  effective  lead  for  peace.  Whether  this 
lead  will  succeed  in  averting  war,  no  one  can  say,  but  all  lovers  of 
peace  will  welcome  it  and  wish  it  success.  Our  Congress  was  ably  rep 
resented  at  Brussels  by  Shri  V.  K.  Krishna  Menon,  and  the  report  that 
he  has  sent  us  is  being  placed  before  you.  I  trust  that  the  Congress  will 
associate  itself  fully  with  the  permanent  peace  organization  that  is 
being  built  up  and  assist  with  all  its  strength  in  this  great  task.  In 
doing  so  we  must  make  our  own  position  perfectly  clear.  For  us,  and 
we  think  for  the  world,  the  problem  of  peace  cannot  be  separated  from 
imperialism,  and  in  order  to  remove  the  root  causes  of  war,  imperial 
ism  must  go.  We  believe  in  the  sanctity  of  treaties,  but  we  cannot  con 
sider  ourselves  bound  by  treaties  in  the  making  of  which  the  people  of 

418 


India  had  no  part,  unless  we  accept  them  in  due  course.  The  problem 
of  maintaining  peace  cannot  be  isolated  by  us,  in  our  present  condi 
tion,  from  war  resistance.  The  Congress  has  already  declared  that  we 
can  be  no  parties  to  an  imperialist  war,  and  we  will  not  allow  the 
exploitation  of  India's  man  power  and  resources  for  such  a  war.  Any 
such  attempt  will  be  resisted  by  us. 

The  League  of  Nations  has  fallen  very  low,  and  there  are  few  who 
take  it  seriously  as  an  instrument  for  the  preservation  of  peace.  India 
has  no  enthusiasm  for  it  whatever,  and  the  Indian  membership  of  the 
League  is  a  farce,  for  the  selection  of  delegates  is  made  by  the  British 
Government.  We  must  work  for  a  real  League  of  Nations,  democrati 
cally  constructed,  which  would  in  effect  be  a  League  of  Peoples.  If 
even  the  present  League,  ineffective  and  powerless  as  it  is,  can  be  used 
in  favor  of  peace,  we  shall  welcome  it. 

With  this  international  background  in  view,  let  us  consider  our  na 
tional  problems.  The  Government  of  India  Act  of  1935,  the  new  Con 
stitution,  stares  at  us  offensively,  this  new  charter  of  bondage  which 
has  been  imposed  upon  us  despite  our  utter  rejection  of  it;  and  we  are 
preparing  to  fight  elections  under  it.  Why  we  have  entered  into  this 
election  contest  and  how  we  propose  to  follow  it  up  has  been  fully 
stated  in  the  Election  Manifesto  of  the  All-India  Congress  Committee, 
and  I  commend  this  manifesto  for  your  adoption.  We  go  to  the  legis 
latures  not  to  co-operate  with  the  apparatus  of  British  imperialism,  but 
to  combat  the  Act  and  seek  to  end  it,  and  to  resist  in  every  way  British 
imperialism  in  its  attempt  to  strengthen  its  hold  on  India  and  its  ex 
ploitation  of  the  Indian  people.  That  is  the  basic  policy  of  the  Con 
gress,  and  no  Congressman,  no  candidate  for  election,  must  forget  this. 
Whatever  we  do  must  be  within  the  four  corners  of  this  policy.  We 
are  not  going  to  the  legislatures  to  pursue  the  path  of  constitutionalism 
or  a  barren  reformism. 

There  is  a  certain  tendency  to  compromise  over  these  elections.,  to 
seek  a  majority  at  any  cost.  This  is  a  dangerous  drift  and  must  be 
stopped.  The  elections  must  be  used  to  rally  the  masses  to  the  Congress 
standard,  to  carry  the  message  of  the  Congress  to  the  millions  of  voters 
and  nonvoters  alike,  to  press  forward  the  mass  struggle.  The  biggest 
majority  in  a  legislature  will  be  of  litde  use  to  us  if  we  have  not  got 
this  mass  movement  behind  us,  and  a  majority  built  on  compromises 
with  reactionary  groups  or  individuals  will  defeat  the  very  purpose  of 
the  Congress. 

With  the  effort  to  fight  the  Act,  and  as  a  corollary  to  it,  we  have  to 

419 


stress  our  positive  demand  for  a  Constituent  Assembly  elected  under 
adult  suffrage.  That  is  the  very  cornerstone  of  Congress  policy  today, 
and  our  election  campaign  must  be  based  on  it.  This  Assembly  must 
not  be  conceived  as  something  emanating  from  the  British  Govern 
ment  or  as  a  compromise  with  British  imperialism.  If  it  is  to  have  any 
reality,  it  must  have  the  will  of  the  people  behind  it  and  the  organized 
strength  of  the  masses  to  support  it,  and  the  power  to  draw  up  the 
constitution  of  a  free  India.  We  have  to  create  that  mass  support  for  it 
through  these  elections  and  later  through  our  other  activities. 

The  Working  Committee  has  recommended  to  this  Congress  that  a 
convention  of  all  Congress  members  of  all  the  legislatures,  and  such 
other  persons  as  the  Committee  might  wish  to  add  to  them,  should 
meet  soon  after  the  election  to  put  forward  the  demand  for  the  Con 
stituent  Assembly,  and  determine  how  to  oppose,  by  all  feasible 
methods,  the  introduction  of  the  federal  structure  of  the  Act.  Such  a 
Convention,  which  must  include  the  members  of  the  All-India  Con 
gress  Committee,  should  help  us  greatly  in  focusing  our  struggle  and 
giving  it  proper  direction  in  the  legislatures  and  outside.  It  will  prevent 
the  Congress  members  of  the  legislatures  from  developing  provincial 
ism  and  getting  entangled  in  minor  provincial  matters.  It  will  give 
them  the  right  perspective  and  a  sense  of  all-India  discipline,  and  it 
should  help  greatly  in  developing  mass  activities  on  a  large  scale.  The 
idea  is  full  of  big  possibility,  and  I  trust  that  the  Congress  will  approve 
of  it. 

Next  to  this  demand  for  the  Constituent  Assembly,  our  most  im 
portant  task  will  be  to  oppose  the  federal  structure  of  the  Act.  Utterly 
bad  as  the  Act  is,  there  is  nothing  so  bad  in  it  as  this  federation,  and 
so  we  must  exert  ourselves  to  the  utmost  to  break  this  and  thus  end 
the  Act  as  a  whole.  To  live  not  only  under  British  imperialist  exploi 
tation  but  also  under  Indian  feudal  control,  is  something  that  we  are 
not  going  to  tolerate  whatever  the  consequences.  It  is  an  interesting 
and  instructive  result  of  the  long  period  of  British  rule  in  India  that 
when,  as  we  are  told,  it  is  trying  to  fade  off,  it  should  gather  to  itself 
all  the  reactionary  and  obscurantist  groups  in  India,  and  endeavor  to 
hand  partial  control  to  the  feudal  elements. 

The  development  of  this  federal  scheme  is  worthy  of  consideration. 
We  are  not  against  the  conception  of  a  federation.  It  is  likely  that  a 
free  India  may  be  a  federal  India,  though  in  any  event  there  must  be 
a  great  deal  of  unitary  control.  But  the  present  federation  that  is  being 
thrust  upon  us  is  a  federation  in  bondage  and  under  the  control,  politi- 

420 


cally  and  socially,  of  the  most  backward  elements  in  the  country.  The 
present  Indian  states  took  shape  early  in  the  nineteenth  century  in  the 
unsettled  conditions  of  early  British  rule.  The  treaties  with  their  auto 
cratic  rulers,  which  are  held  up  to  us  so  often  now  as  sacred  documents 
which  may  not  be  touched,  date  from  that  period. 

It  is  worth  while  comparing  the  state  of  Europe  then  with  that  o£ 
India.  In  Europe  then  there  were  numerous  tiny  kingdoms  and  prince 
doms;  kings  were  autocratic,  holy  alliances  and  royal  prerogatives 
flourished.  Slavery  was  legal.  During  these  hundred  years  and  more 
Europe  has  changed  out  of  recognition.  As  a  result  of  numerous  revo 
lutions  and  changes  the  princedoms  have  gone  and  very  few  kings 
remain.  Slavery  has  gone.  Modern  industry  has  spread,  and  democratic 
institutions  have  grown  up  with  an  ever-widening  franchise.  These  in 
their  turn  have  given  place  in  some  countries  to  fascist  dictatorships. 
Backward  Russia,  with  one  mighty  jump,  has  established  a  Soviet 
Socialist  state  and  an  economic  order  which  has  resulted  in  tremendous 
progress  in  all  directions.  The  world  has  gone  on  changing  and  hovers 
on  the  brink  of  yet  another  vast  change.  But  not  so  the  Indian  states; 
they  remain  static  in  this  ever-changing  panorama,  staring  at  us  with 
the  eyes  of  the  early  nineteenth  century.  The  old  treaties  are  sacrosanct, 
treaties  made  not  with  the  people  or  their  representatives  but  with 
their  autocratic  rulers. 

This  is  a  state  of  affairs  which  no  nation,  no  people  can  tolerate.  We 
cannot  recognize  these  old  settlements  of  more  than  a  hundred  years 
ago  as  permanent  and  unchanging.  The  Indian  states  will  have  to  fit 
into  the  scheme  of  a  free  India,  and  their  peoples  must  have,  as  the 
Congress  has  declared,  the  same  personal,  civil,  and  democratic  liber 
ties  as  those  of  the  rest  of  India. 

Till  recent  years  little  was  heard  of  the  treaties  of  the  states  or  of 
paramountcy.  The  rulers  knew  their  proper  places  in  the  imperial 
scheme  of  things,  and  the  heavy  hand  of  the  British  Government  was 
always  in  evidence.  But  the  growth  of  the  national  movement  in  India 
gave  them  a  fictitious  importance,  for  the  British  Government  began 
to  rely  upon  them  more  and  more  to  help  it  in  combating  this  nation 
alism.  The  rulers  and  their  ministers  were  quick  to  notice  the  change 
in  the  angle  of  vision  and  to  profit  by  it.  They  tried  to  play,  not  with 
out  success,  the  British  Government  and  the  Indian  people  against 
each  other  and  to  gain  advantages  from  both.  They  have  succeeded  to 
a  remarkable  degree  and  have  gained  extraordinary  power  under  the 
federal  scheme.  Having  preserved  themselves  as  autocratic  units,  which 

421 


are  wholly  outside  the  control  of  the  rest  of  India,  they  have  gained 
power  over  other  parts  of  India.  Today  we  find  them  talking  as  if 
they  were  independent  and  laying  down  conditions  for  their  adherence 
to  the  federation.  There  is  talk  even  of  the  abolition  of  the  viceregal 
paramountcy,  so  that  these  states  may  remain,  alone  in  the  whole 
world,  naked  and  unchecked  autocracies,  which  cannot  be  tampered 
with  by  any  constitutional  means.  A  sinister  development  is  the  build 
ing  up  of  the  armies  of  some  of  the  bigger  states  on  an  efficient  basis. 

Thus  our  opposition  to  the  federal  part  of  the  Constitution  Act  is 
not  merely  a  theoretical  one,  but  a  vital  matter  which  affects  our  free 
dom  struggle  and  our  future  destiny.  We  have  got  to  make  it  a  central 
pivot  of  our  struggle  against  the  Act.  We  have  got  to  break  this  fed 
eration. 

Our  policy  is  to  put  an  end  to  the  Act  and  have  a  clean  slate  to 
write  afresh.  We  are  told  by  people  who  can  think  only  in  terms  of 
action  taken  in  the  legislatures,  that  it  is  not  possible  to  wreck  it  and 
there  are  ample  provisions  and  safeguards  to  enable  the  Government 
to  carry  on  despite  a  hostile  majority.  We  are  well  aware  of  these  safe 
guards;  they  are  one  of  the  principal  reasons  why  we  reject  the  Act. 
We  know  also  that  there  are  second  chambers  to  obstruct  us.  We  can 
create  constitutional  crises  inside  the  legislatures,  we  can  have  dead 
locks,  we  can  obstruct  the  imperialist  machine,  but  always  there  is  a 
way  out.  The  Constitution  cannot  be  wrecked  by  action  inside  the 
legislatures  only.  For  that,  mass  action  outside  is  necessary,  and  that  is 
why  we  must  always  remember  that  the  essence  of  our  freedom  strug 
gle  lies  in  mass  organization  and  mass  action. 

The  policy  of  the  Congress  in  regard  to  the  legislatures  is  perfectly 
clear;  only  in  one  matter  it  still  remains  undecided — the  question  of 
acceptance  or  not  of  office.  Probably  the  decision  of  this  question  will 
be  postponed  till  after  the  elections.  At  Lucknow  I  ventured  to  tell  you 
that,  in  my  opinion,  acceptance  of  office  was  a  negation  of  our  policy 
of  rejection  of  the  Act;  it  was  further  a  reversal  of  the  policy  we  had 
adopted  in  1920  and  followed  since  then.  Since  Lucknow  the  Congress 
has  further  clarified  its  position  in  the  Election  Manifesto  and  de 
clared  that  we  are  not  going  to  the  legislatures  to  co-operate  in  any 
way  with  the  Act  but  to  combat  it.  That  limits  the  field  of  our  de 
cision  in  regard  to  offices,  and  those  who  incline  to  acceptance  of  them 
must  demonstrate  that  this  is  the  way  to  nonco-operate  with  the  Act, 
and  to  end  it. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  only  logical  consequence  o£  the  Congress 

422 


policy,  as  defined  in  our  resolutions  and  in  the  Election  Manifesto,  is 
to  have  nothing  to  do  with  office  and  ministry.  Any  deviation  from 
this  would  mean  a  reversal  of  that  policy.  It  would  inevitably  mean  a 
kind  of  partnership  with  British  imperialism  in  the  exploitation  of  the 
Indian  people,  an  acquiescence,  even  though  under  protest  and  subject 
to  reservations,  in  the  basic  ideas  underlying  the  Act,  an  association  to 
some  extent  with  British  imperialism  in  the  hateful  task  of  the  repres 
sion  of  our  advanced  elements.  Office  accepted  on  any  other  basis  is 
hardly  possible,  and,  if  it  is  possible,  it  will  lead  almost  immediately 
to  deadlock  and  conflict.  That  deadlock  and  impasse  does  not  frighten 
us;  we  welcome  it.  But  then  we  must  think  in  terms  of  deadlocks  and 
not  in  terms  of  carrying  on  with  the  office. 

There  seems  to  be  a  fear  that  if  we  do  not  accept  office  others  will  do 
so  and  they  will  put  obstacles  in  the  way  of  our  freedom  movement. 
But,  if  we  are  in  a  majority,  we  can  prevent  others  from  misbehaving; 
we  can  even  prevent  the  formation  of  any  ministry.  If  our  majority  is 
a  doubtful  one,  then  office  for  us  depends  on  compromises  with  non- 
Congress  elements,  a  policy  full  of  danger  for  our  cause  and  one  which 
would  inevitably  lead  to  our  acting  in  direct  opposition  to  the  Congress 
mandate  of  rejection  of  the  Act.  Whether  we  are  in  a  majority  or  in  a 
minority,  the  real  thing  will  always  be  the  organized  mass  backing 
behind  us.  A  majority  without  that  backing  can  do  little  in  the  legis 
latures;  even  a  militant  minority  with  conscious  and  organized  mass 
support  can  make  the  functioning  of  the  Act  very  difficult. 

We  have  put  the  Constituent  Assembly  in  the  forefront  of  our  pro 
gram,  as  well  as  the  fight  against  the  federal  structure.  With  what 
force  can  we  press  these  two  vital  points  and  build  up  a  mass  agitation 
around  them  if  we  wobble  over  the  question  of  office  and  get  entangled 
in  its  web? 

We  have  great  tasks  ahead,  great  problems  to  solve  both  in  India 
and  in  the  international  sphere.  Who  can  face  and  solve  these  prob 
lems  in  India  but  this  great  organization  of  ours,  which  has,  through 
fifty  years'  effort  and  sacrifice,  established  its  unchallengeable  right  to 
speak  for  the  millions  of  India?  Has  it  not  become  the  mirror  of  their 
hopes  and  desires,  their  urge  to  freedom,  and  the  strong  arm  that  will 
wrest  this  freedom  from  unwilling  and  resisting  hands?  It  started  in  a 
small  way  with  a  gallant  band  of  pioneers,  but  even  then  it  represented 
a  historic  force,  and  it  drew  to  itself  the  good  will  of  the  Indian  people. 
From  year  to  year  it  grew,  faced  inner  conflicts  whenever  it  wanted  to 
advance  and  was  held  back  by  some  of  its  members.  But  the  urge  to  go 

423 


ahead  was  too  great,  the  push  from  below  increased;  and,  though  a 
few  left  us,  unable  to  adjust  themselves  to  changing  conditions,  vast 
numbers  of  others  joined  the  Congress.  It  became  a  great  propaganda 
machine  dominating  the  public  platform  of  India.  But  it  was  an 
amorphous  mass;  its  organizational  side  was  weak,  and  effective  action 
on  a  large  scale  was  beyond  its  powers.  The  coming  of  Gandhiji 
brought  the  peasant  masses  to  the  Congress,  and  the  new  constitution 
that  was  adopted  at  his  instance  in  Nagpur  in  1920  tightened  up  the 
organization,  limited  the  number  of  delegates  according  to  population, 
and  gave  it  strength  and  capacity  for  joint  and  effective  action.  That 
action  followed  soon  after  on  a  countrywide  scale  and  was  repeated  in 
later  years.  But  the  very  success  and  prestige  of  the  Congress  often 
drew  undesirable  elements  to  its  fold  and  accentuated  the  defects  of  the 
constitution.  The  organization  was  becoming  unwieldy  and  slow  of 
movement  and  capable  of  being  exploited  in  local  areas  by  particular 
groups.  Two  years  ago  radical  changes  were  made  in  the  constitution 
again  at  Gandhiji's  instance.  One  of  these  was  the  fixation  of  the  num 
ber  of  delegates  according  to  membership,  a  change  which  has  given  a 
greater  reality  to  our  elections  and  strengthened  us  organizationally. 
But  still  our  organizational  side  lags  far  behind  the  great  prestige  of 
the  Congress,  and  there  is  a  tendency  for  our  committees  to  function 
in  the  air,  cut  off  from  the  rank  and  file. 

It  was  partly  to  remedy  this  that  the  Mass  Contacts  resolution  was 
passed  by  the  Lucknow  Congress,  but  unhappily  the  committee  that 
was  in  charge  of  this  matter  has  not  reported  yet.  The  problem  is  a 
wider  one  than  was  comprised  in  that  resolution,  for  it  includes  an 
overhauling  of  the  Congress  constitution  with  the  object  of  making 
it  a  closer-knit  body,  capable  of  disciplined  and  effective  action.  That 
action  to  be  effective  must  be  mass  action,  and  the  essence  of  the 
strength  of  the  Congress  has  been  this  mass  basis  and  mass  response 
to  its  calls.  But,  though  that  mass  basis  is  there,  it  is  not  reflected  in 
the  organizational  side,  and  hence  an  inherent  weakness  in  our  activi 
ties.  We  have  seen  the  gradual  transformation  of  the  Congress  from  a 
small  upper-class  body  to  one  representing  the  great  body  of  the  lower 
middle  classes,  and  later  the  masses  of  this  country.  As  this  drift  to  the 
masses  continued,  the  political  role  of  the  organization  changed  and 
is  changing,  for  this  political  role  is  largely  determined  by  the  eco 
nomic  roots  of  the  organization. 

We  are  already  and  inevitably  committed  to  this  mass  basis,  for 
without  it  there  is  no  power  or  strength  in  us.  We  have  now  to  bring 

424 


that  into  line  with  the  organization,  so  as  to  give  our  primary  mem 
bers  greater  powers  o£  initiative  and  control  and  opportunities  for  day- 
to-day  activities.  We  have,  in  other  words,  to  democratize  the  Congress 
still  further. 

Another  aspect  of  this  problem  that  has  been  debated  during  the 
past  year  has  been  the  desirability  of  affiliating  other  organizations,  of 
peasants,  workers,  and  others,  which  also  aim  at  the  freedom  of  the 
Indian  people,  and  thus  to  make  the  Congress  the  widest  possible 
joint  front  of  all  the  anti-imperialist  forces  in  the  country.  As  it  is,  the 
Congress  has  an  extensive  direct  membership  among  these  groups; 
probably  75%  of  its  members  come  from  the  peasantry.  But,  it  is 
argued,  that  functional  representation  will  give  far  greater  reality  to 
the  peasants  and  workers  in  the  Congress.  This  proposal  has  been 
resisted  because  of  a  fear  that  the  Congress  might  be  swamped  by  new 
elements,  sometimes  even  politically  backward  elements.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  although  this  question  is  an  important  one  for  us,  any  decision 
of  it  will  make  little  difference  at  present;  its  chief  significance  will  be 
as  a  gesture  of  good  will.  For  there  are  few  well-organized  workers'  or 
peasants'  unions  in  the  country  which  are  likely  to  profit  by  Congress 
affiliation.  There  is  not  the  least  possibility  of  any  swamping,  and,  in 
any  event,  this  can  easily  be  avoided.  I  think  that  now  or  later  some 
kind  of  functional  representation  in  the  Congress  is  inevitable  and  de 
sirable.  It  is  easy  for  the  Congress  to  lay  down  conditions  for  such 
affiliation,  so  as  to  prevent  bogus  and  mushroom  growths  or  undesir 
able  organizations  from  profiting  by  it.  A  limit  might  also  be  placed 
on  the  number  of  representatives  that  such  affiliated  organizations  can 
send.  Some  such  recommendation,  I  believe,  has  been  made  by  the  Pro 
vincial  Congress  Committee  of  the  United  Provinces. 

The  real  object  before  us  is  to  build  up  a  powerful  joint  front  of 
all  the  anti-imperialist  forces  in  the  country.  The  Congress  has  indeed 
been  in  the  past,  and  is  today,  such  a  united  popular  front,  and  inevi 
tably  the  Congress  must  be  the  basis  and  pivot  of  united  action.  The 
active  participation  of  the  organized  workers  and  peasants  in  such  a 
front  would  add  to  its  strength  and  must  be  welcomed.  Co-operation 
between  them  and  the  Congress  organization  has  been  growing  and 
has  been  a  marked  feature  of  the  past  year.  This  tendency  must  be 
encouraged.  The  most  urgent  and  vital  need  of  India  today  is  this 
united  national  front  of  all  forces  and  elements  that  are  ranged  against 
imperialism.  Within  the  Congress  itself  most  of  these  forces  are  repre 
sented,  and  in  spite  of  their  diversity  and  difference  in  outlook,  they 

425 


have  co-operated  and  worked  together  for  the  common  good.  That  is  a 
healthy  sign  both  o£  the  vitality  of  our  great  movement  and  the  unity 
that  binds  it  together.  The  basis  of  it  is  anti-imperialism  and  inde 
pendence.  Its  immediate  demand  is  for  a  Constituent  Assembly  lead 
ing  to  a  democratic  state  where  political  power  has  been  transferred  to 
the  mass  of  the  people.  An  inevitable  consequence  of  this  is  the  with 
drawal  of  the  alien  army  of  occupation. 

These  are  the  objectives  before  us,  but  we  cannot  ignore  the  present- 
day  realities  and  the  day-to-day  problems  of  our  people.  These  ever- 
present  realities  are  the  poverty  and  unemployment  of  our  millions, 
appalling  poverty  and  an  unemployment  which  has  even  the  middle 
classes  in  its  grip  and  grows  like  a  creeping  paralysis.  The  world  is 
full  of  painful  contrasts  today,  but  surely  nowhere  else  are  these  con 
trasts  so  astounding  as  in  India.  Imperial  Delhi  stands,  visible  symbol 
of  British  power,  with  all  its  pomp  and  circumstance  and  vulgar 
ostentation  and  wasteful  extravagance;  and  within  a  few  miles  of  it 
are  the  mud  huts  of  India's  starving  peasantry,  out  of  whose  meager 
earnings  these  great  palaces  have  been  built,  huge  salaries  and  allow 
ances  paid.  The  ruler  of  a  state  flaunts  his  palaces  and  his  luxury 
before  his  wretched  and  miserable  subjects,  and  talks  of  his  treaties 
and  his  inherent  right  to  autocracy.  And  the  new  Act  and  Constitution 
have  come  to  us  to  preserve  and  perpetuate  these  contrasts,  to  make 
India  safe  for  autocracy  and  imperialist  exploitation. 

As  I  write,  a  great  railway  strike  is  in  progress.  For  long  the  world 
of  railway  workers  has  been  in  ferment  because  of  retrenchment  and 
reduction  in  wages  and  against  them  is  the  whole  power  of  the  State. 
Some  time  ago  there  was  a  heroic  strike  in  the  Ambernath  Match 
Factory  near  Bombay,  owned  by  a  great  foreign  trust.  But  behind  that 
trust  and  supporting  it,  we  saw  the  apparatus  of  Government  func 
tioning  in  the  most  extraordinary  way.  The  workers  in  our  country 
have  yet  to  gain  elementary  rights;  they  have  yet  to  have  an  eight-hour 
day  and  unemployment  insurance  and  a  guaranteed  living  wage. 

But  a  vaster  and  more  pressing  problem  is  that  of  the  peasantry,  for 
India  is  essentially  a  land  of  the  peasants.  In  recognition  of  this  fact, 
and  to  bring  the  Congress  nearer  to  the  peasant  masses,  we  are  meet 
ing  here  today  at  the  village  of  Faizpur  and  not,  as  of  old,  in  some 
great  city.  The  Lucknow  Congress  laid  stress  on  this  land  problem 
and  called  on  the  provincial  committees  to  frame  agrarian  programs. 
This  work  is  still  incomplete,  for  the  vastness  and  intricacy  of  it  has 
demanded  full  investigation.  But  the  urgency  of  the  problem  calls  for 

426 


immediate  solution.  Demands  for  radical  reforms  in  the  rent  and 
revenue  and  the  abolition  of  feudal  levies  have  been  made  from  most 
of  the  provinces.  The  crushing  burden  of  debt  on  the  agricultural 
classes  has  led  to  a  widespread  cry  for  a  moratorium  and  a  substantial 
liquidation  of  debt.  In  the  Punjab,  \arza  (Debt)  committees  have 
grown  up  to  protect  the  peasantry.  All  these  and  many  other  demands 
are  insistently  made,  and  vast  gatherings  of  peasants  testify  to  their 
inability  to  carry  their  present  burdens.  Yet  it  is  highly  doubtful  if  this 
problem  can  be  solved  piecemeal  and  without  changing  completely 
the  land  system.  That  land  system  cannot  endure,  and  an  obvious  step 
is  to  remove  the  intermediaries  between  the  cultivator  and  the  State. 
Co-operative  or  collective  farming  must  follow. 

The  reform  of  the  land  system  is  tied  up  with  the  development  of 
industry,  both  large-scale  and  cottage,  in  order  to  give  work  to  our 
scores  of  millions  of  unemployed  and  raise  the  pitiful  standards  of  our 
people.  That  again  is  connected  with  so  many  other  things — education, 
housing,  roads  and  transport,  sanitation,  medical  relief,  social  services, 
etc.  Industry  cannot  expand  properly  because  of  the  economic  and 
financial  policy  of  the  Government,  which,  in  the  name  of  Imperial 
Preference,  encourages  British  manufactures  in  India,  and  works  for 
the  profit  of  Big  Finance  in  the  City  of  London.  The  currency  ratio 
continues  in  spite  of  persistent  Indian  protest;  gold  has  been  pouring 
out  of  India  continuously  now  for  five  years  at  a  prodigious  rate, 
though  all  India  vehemently  opposes  this  outflow.  And  the  new  Act 
tells  us  that  we  may  do  nothing  which  the  Viceroy  or  the  Governor 
might  consider  as  an  unfair  discrimination  against  British  trade  or 
commercial  interests.  The  old  order  may  yield  place  to  the  new,  but 
British  interests  are  safe  and  secure. 

And  so  one  problem  runs  into  another,  and  all  together  form  that 
vast  complex  that  is  India  today.  Are  we  going  to  solve  this  by  petty 
tinkering  and  patchwork  with  all  manner  of  vested  interests  obstruct 
ing  us  and  preventing  advance?  Only  a  great  planned  system  for  the 
whole  land  and  dealing  with  all  these  various  national  activities,  co 
ordinating  them,  making  each  serve  the  larger  whole  and  the  interests 
of  the  mass  of  our  people — only  such  a  planned  system,  with  vision 
and  courage  to  back  it,  can  find  a  solution.  But  planned  'systems  do 
not  flourish  under  the  shadow  of  monopolies  and  vested  interests  and 
imperialist  exploitation.  They  require  the  air  and  soil  of  political  and 
social  freedom. 

These  are  distant  goals  for  us  today  though  the  rapid  march  of 

427 


events  may  bring  us  face  to  face  with  them  sooner  than  we  imagine. 
The  immediate  goal — independence — is  nearer  and  more  definite,  and 
that  is  why  perhaps  we  escape,  to  a  large  extent,  that  tragic  disillusion 
and  hopelessness  which  affect  so  many  in  Europe. 

We  are  apparently  weak,  not  really  so.  We  grow  in  strength,  the 
Empire  of  Britain  fades  away.  Because  we  are  politically  and  economi 
cally  crushed,  our  civil  liberties  taken  away,  hundreds  of  our  organi 
zations  made  illegal,  thousands  of  our  young  men  and  women  always 
kept  in  prison  or  in  detention  camp,  our  movements  continually 
watched  by  hordes  of  secret  service  men  and  informers,  our  spoken 
word  taken  down,  lest  it  offend  the  law  of  sedition — because  of  all  this 
and  more  we  are  not  weaker  but  stronger,  for  all  this  intense  repression 
is  the  measure  of  our  growing  national  strength.  War  and  revolution 
dominate  the  world,  and  nations  arm  desperately.  If  war  comes  or 
other  great  crisis,  India's  attitude  will  make  a  difference.  We  hold  the 
keys  of  success  in  our  hands  if  we  but  turn  them  rightly.  And  it  is  the 
increasing  realization  of  this  that  has  swept  away  the  defeatist  men 
tality  of  our  people. 

Meanwhile  the  general  election  claims  our  attention  and  absorbs  our 
energy.  Here  too  we  find  official  interference,  in  spite  of  denial,  and 
significant  attempts  to  prevent  secrecy  of  voting  in  the  case  of  illiterate 
voters.  The  United  Provinces  have  been  singled  out  for  this  purpose, 
and  the  system  of  colored  boxes,  which  will  be  used  everywhere  else, 
has  been  ruled  out  for  the  United  Provinces.  But  we  shall  win  in  these 
elections  in  spite  of  all  the  odds— State  pressure,  vested  interest,  money. 

That  will  be  but  a  little  step  in  a  long  journey,  and  we  shall  march 
on,  with  danger  and  distress  as  companions.  We  have  long  had  these 
for  our  fellow  travelers,  and  we  have  grown  used  to  them.  And,  when 
we  have  learned  how  to  dominate  them,  we  shall  also  know  how  to 
dominate  success. 


APPENDIX  D 

STATEMENT  ISSUED  BY  THE  CONGRESS  WORKING  COMMITTEE  ON 
SEPTEMBER  15,  1939 

THE  WORKING  COMMITTEE  has  given  its  earnest  consideration  to  the 
grave  crisis  that  has  developed  owing  to  the  declaration  of  war  in  Eu 
rope.  The  principles  which  should  guide  the  nation  in  the  event  of  war 

428 


have  been  repeatedly  laid  down  by  the  Congress,  and  only  a  month 
ago  this  Committee  reiterated  them  and  expressed  its  displeasure  at  the 
flouting  of  Indian  opinion  by  the  British  Government  in  India. 

As  a  first  step  to  dissociate  itself  from  this  policy  of  the  British  Gov 
ernment,  the  Committee  called  upon  the  Congress  members  of  the 
Central  Legislative  Assembly  to  refrain  from  attending  the  next  session. 
Since  then  the  British  Government  has  declared  India  a  belligerent 
country  and  promulgated  ordinances,  passed  the  Government  of  India 
Act  Amending  Bill,  and  taken  other  far-reaching  measures  which  af 
fect  the  Indian  people  vitally,  and  circumscribe  and  limit  the  powers 
and  activities  of  the  Provincial  Governments.  This  has  been  done  with 
out  the  consent  of  the  Indian  people,  whose  declared  wishes,  in  such 
matters,  have  been  deliberately  ignored  by  the  British  Government. 
The  Working  Committee  must  take  the  gravest  view  of  these  develop 
ments. 

The  Congress  has  repeatedly  declared  its  entire  disapproval  of  the 
ideology  and  practice  of  fascism  and  Nazi-ism  and  their  glorification 
of  war  and  violence  and  the  suppression  of  the  human  spirit.  It  has  con 
demned  aggression,  in  which  they  repeatedly  indulged,  and  their 
sweeping  away  of  well-established  principles  and  recognized  standards 
of  civilized  behavior.  It  has  seen  in  fascism  and  Nazi-ism  the  intensi 
fication  of  the  principle  of  imperialism,  against  which  the  Indian  peo 
ple  have  struggled  for  many  years.  The  Working  Committee  must 
therefore  unhesitatingly  condemn  the  aggression  of  the  Nazi  Govern 
ment  in  Germany  against  Poland  and  sympathize  with  those  who 
resist. 

The  Congress  has  further  laid  down  that  the  issue  of  war  and  peace 
for  India  must  be  decided  by  the  Indian  people,  and  no  outside  author 
ity  can  impose  this  decision  upon  them,  nor  can  the  Indian  people 
permit  their  resources  to  be  exploited  for  imperialist  ends.  Any  imposed 
decision,  or  an  attempt  to  use  Indian  resources,  for  the  purposes  not 
approved  by  them,  will  necessarily  have  to  be  opposed  by  them.  If 
co-operation  is  desired  in  the  worthy  cause,  this  cannot  be  obtained  by 
compulsion  and  imposition,  and  the  Committee  cannot  agree  to  carry 
ing  out  by  the  Indian  people  of  the  orders  issued  by  an  external  author 
ity.  Co-operation  must  be  between  equals  by  mutual  consent  for  the 
cause  which  both  consider  to  be  worthy. 

The  people  in  India  in  the  recent  past  faced  great  risks  and  willingly 
made  great  sacrifices  to  secure  their  own  freedom  and  establish  a  free 
and  democratic  state  in  India,  and  their  sympathy  is  entirely  on  the 

429 


side  of  democracy  and  freedom;  but  India  cannot  associate  herself  in  a 
war  said  to  be  for  democratic  freedom,  when  that  very  freedom  is  de 
nied  her,  and  such  limited  freedom  as  she  possesses  is  taken  away  from 
her. 

The  Committee  is  aware  that  the  Governments  of  Great  Britain  and 
France  have  declared  that  they  are  fighting  for  democracy  and  freedom 
and  to  put  an  end  to  aggression;  but  the  history  of  the  recent  past  is 
full  of  examples  showing  constant  divergence  between  the  spoken 
word,  the  ideals  proclaimed,  and  the  real  motives  and  objectives  during 
the  war  of  1914-18.  The  declared  war  aims  were  the  preservation  of 
democracy,  self-determination  and  freedom  of  small  nations;  and  yet 
the  very  Governments  which  solemnly  proclaimed  these  aims  entered 
into  secret  treaties  embodying  imperialist  designs  for  the  carving  out 
of  an  Ottoman  empire. 

While  stating  that  they  did  not  want  any  acquisition  of  territory, 
the  victorious  Powers  added  largely  to  their  colonial  domains.  The 
present  European  war  itself  signifies  an  abject  failure  of  the  Treaty  of 
Versailles  and  of  its  makers,  who  broke  their  pledged  word  and  im 
posed  an  imperialist  peace  on  the  defeated  nations.  One  hopeful  out 
come  of  that  treaty  was  that  the  League  of  Nations  was  muzzled  and 
strangled  at  the  outset  and  later  on  killed  by  its  parent  States. 

Subsequent  history  demonstrated  afresh  how  even  a  seemingly 
fervent  declaration  of  faith  may  be  followed  by  an  ignoble  desertion. 
In  Manchuria  the  British  Government  connived  at  the  aggression;  in 
Abyssinia  they  acquiesced  in  it;  in  Czechoslovakia  and  Spain,  where 
democracy  was  in  peril,  it  was  deliberately  betrayed,  and  the  whole 
system  of  collective  security  was  sabotaged  by  the  very  Powers  who 
had  previously  declared  their  firm  faith  in  it. 

Again  it  is  asserted  that  democracy  is  in  danger  and  must  be  de 
fended,  and  with  this  statement  the  Committee  is  in  entire  agreement. 
The  Committee  believes  that  the  peoples  in  the  West  are  moved  by 
this  ideal  and  objective,  and  for  these  they  are  prepared  to  make  sacri 
fices;  but  again  and  again  the  ideals  and  the  sentiments  of  the  people 
and  of  those  who  have  sacrificed  themselves  in  the  struggle  have  been 
ignored  and  faith  has  not  been  kept  with  them. 

If  war  is  to  defend  the  status  quo  of  imperialist  possessions  of  col 
onies  and  vested  interests  and  privilege,  then  India  can  have  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  If,  however,  the  issue  is  democracy  and  world  order  based 
on  democracy,  then  India  is  intensely  interested  in  it.  The  Committee 
is  convinced  that  the  interests  of  Indian  democracy  do  not  conflict  with 

430 


the  interests  of  British  democracy  or  world  democracy.  But  there  is  an 
inherent  and  ineradicable  conflict  between  democracy  for  India,  or  else 
where,  and  imperialism  and  fascism.  If  Great  Britain  fights  for  the 
maintenance  and  extension  of  democracy,  then  she  must  necessarily 
end  imperialism  in  her  own  possessions  and  establish  full  democracy 
in  India,  and  the  Indian  people  must  have  the  right  of  self-determina 
tion  to  frame  their  own  constitution  through  a  Constituent  Assembly 
without  external  interference,  and  must  guide  their  own  policy.  A  free 
and  democratic  India  will  gladly  associate  herself  with  other  free  na 
tions  for  mutual  defense  against  aggression  and  for  economic  co-opera 
tion.  She  will  work  for  the  establishment  of  a  real  world  order  based 
on  freedom  and  democracy,  utilizing  the  world's  knowledge  and  re 
sources  for  the  progress  and  advancement  of  humanity. 

The  crisis  that  has  overtaken  Europe  is  not  of  Europe  only,  but  of 
humanity,  and  will  not  pass,  like  other  crises  or  wars,  leaving  the  essen 
tial  structure  of  the  present-day  world  intact.  It  is  likely  to  refashion 
the  world  for  good;  for  politically,  socially,  and  economically  this 
crisis  is  an  inevitable  consequence  of  the  social  and  political  conflicts 
and  contradictions  which  have  grown  alarmingly  since  the  last  Great 
War,  and  it  will  not  be  finally  resolved  till  these  conflicts  and  contra 
dictions  are  removed  and  a  new  equilibrium  established.  That  equi 
librium  can  be  based  only  on  the  ending  of  the  domination  and 
exploitation  of  one  country  by  another,  and  on  the  reorganization  of 
economic  relations  on  a  juster  basis  for  the  common  good  of  all.  India 
is  the  crux  of  the  problem,  for  India  has  been  an  outstanding  example 
of  modern  imperialism,  and  no  refashioning  of  the  world  can  succeed 
which  ignores  this  vital  problem.  With  her  vast  resources  she  must 
play  an  important  part  in  any  scheme  of  world  reorganization.  But  she 
can  only  do  so  as  a  free  nation  whose  energies  have  been  released  to 
work  for  this  great  end.  Freedom  today  is  indivisible,  and  every  at 
tempt  to  retain  imperialist  domination  in  any  part  of  the  world  will 
lead  inevitably  to  a  fresh  disaster. 

The  Working  Committee  has  noted  that  many  rulers  of  Indian 
states  have  offered  their  services  and  resources,  and  expressed  their 
desire  to  support  the  cause  of  democracy  in  Europe.  If  they  must  make 
their  professions  in  favor  of  democracy  abroad,  the  Committee  sug 
gests  that  their  first  concern  should  be  the  introduction  of  democracy 
within  their  own  states,  in  which  today  undiluted  autocracy  reigns. 
The  British  Government  in  India  is  more  responsible  for  this  autocracy 
than  even  rulers  themselves,  as  has  been  made  painfully  evident  during 

431 


the  past  year.  This  policy  is  the  very  negation  of  democracy  and  of  the 
new  world  order  for  which  Great  Britain  claims  to  be  fighting  in 
Europe. 

As  the  Committee  views  the  past  events  in  Europe,  Africa,  and  Asia, 
and  more  particularly  the  past  and  present  occurrences  in  India,  it  fails 
to  find  any  attempt  to  advance  the  cause  of  democracy,  of  self-determi 
nation;  or  any  evidence  that  the  present  war  declarations  of  the  British 
Government  are  being,  or  are  going  to  be,  acted  upon.  The  true  meas 
ure  of  democracy  is  the  ending  of  imperialism  and  fascism  alike  and 
the  aggression  that  has  accompanied  them  in  the  past  and  the  present. 
Only  on  that  basis  can  the  new  order  be  built  up. 

In  the  struggle  for  that  new  world  order,  the  Committee  is  eager  and 
desirous  to  help  in  every  way;  but  the  Committee  cannot  associate 
itself,  or  offer  any  co-operation  in  a  war  which  is  conducted  on  imperi 
alist  lines,  and  which  is  a  means  to  consolidate  imperialism  in  India 
and  elsewhere. 

In  view,  however,  of  the  gravity  of  the  occasion,  and  the  fact  that  the 
pace  of  events  during  the  last  few  days  has  often  been  swifter  than  the 
working  of  men's  minds,  the  Committee  desires  to  take  no  final  de 
cision  at  this  stage,  so  far  as  to  allow  for  a  full  elucidation  of  the  issues 
at  stake,  the  real  objectives  aimed  at,  and  the  position  of  India  in  the 
present  and  in  the  future.  But  a  decision  cannot  long  be  delayed,  as 
India  is  being  committed  from  day  to  day  to  a  policy  to  which  she  is 
not  a  party,  and  of  which  she  disapproves.  The  Working  Committee, 
therefore,  invites  the  British  Government  to  declare  in  unequivocal 
terms  what  their  war  aims  are  in  regard  to  democracy  and  imperialism 
and  the  new  order  that  is  envisaged,  in  particular  how  these  aims  are 
going  to  apply  to  India  and  to  be  given  effect  to  at  present.  Do  they 
include  the  elimination  of  imperialism  and  the  treatment  of  India  as  a 
free  nation  whose  policy  will  be  guided  in  accordance  with  the  wishes 
of  her  people?  A  clear  declaration  about  the  future  pledging  by  the 
Government  to  the  ending  of  imperialism  and  fascism  alike,  will  be 
welcomed  by  the  people  of  all  countries;  but  it  is  far  more  important 
to  give  an  immediate  effect  to  it  to  the  largest  possible  extent,  for  only 
this  will  convince  the  people  that  the  declaration  is  meant  to  be  hon 
ored.  The  real  test  of  any  declaration  is  its  application  in  the  present, 
for  it  is  the  present  that  will  govern  the  action  today  and  will  give 
shape  to  the  future. 

War  has  broken  out  in  Europe,  and  the  prospect  is  terrible  to  con 
template.  But  war  has  been  taking  its  heavy  toll  of  human  life  during 

432 


the  past  years  in  Abyssinia,  Spain,  and  China.  Innumerable  innocent 
men,  women,  and  children  have  been  bombed  to  death  from  the  air  in 
open  cities.  Cold-blooded  massacres  and  torture  to  the  utmost  humilia 
tion  have  followed  each  other  in  quick  succession  during  these  years  o£ 
horror.  That  horror  grows;  violence  and  the  threat  of  violence  shadow 
the  world,  and,  unless  checked  and  ended,  will  destroy  the  previous 
inheritance  of  the  past  ages.  That  horror  has  to  be  checked  in  Europe 
and  China,  but  it  will  not  end  till  its  root  causes,  fascism  and  imperial 
ism,  are  removed.  To  that  end,  the  Working  Committee  is  prepared 
to  give  its  co-operation;  but  it  will  be  an  infinite  tragedy  if  even  this 
terrible  war  is  carried  on  in  the  spirit  of  imperialism  and  for  the  pur 
pose  of  retaining  this  structure  which  is  itself  the  cause  of  war  and 
human  degradation. 

The  Working  Committee  wishes  to  declare  that  the  Indian  people 
have  no  quarrel  with  the  German  people,  or  the  Japanese  people,  or 
any  other  people;  but  they  have  a  deep-rooted  quarrel  with  the  sys 
tems  which  deny  freedom  and  are  based  on  violence  and  aggression. 
They  do  not  look  forward  to  the  victory  of  one  people  over  another, 
or  to  the  dictated  peace,  but  a  victory  of  real  democracy  for  all  people 
in  all  countries,  when  the  world  is  freed  from  the  nightmare  of  violence 
and  imperialist  oppression. 

The  Committee  earnestly  appeals  to  the  Indian  people  to  end  all  in 
ternal  conflict  and  controversy  at  this  grave  hour  of  peril,  and  keep  in 
readiness  and  hold  together  as  a  united  nation,  calm  of  purpose,  and 
determine  to  achieve  freedom  for  India  within  the  larger  freedom  of 
the  world. 


APPENDIX  E 

EXCERPT  FROM  THE  ARTICLE  ABOUT  HIMSELF  WRITTEN  ANONYMOUSLY 
BY  JAWAHARLAL  NEHRU  IN  THE  "MODERN  REVIEW"  OF  CALCUTTA 

Jawaharlal  ft  jail  (Hail  Jawaharlal!).  The  Rashtrapati  looked  up  as 
he  passed  swiftly  through  the  waiting  crowds;  his  hands  went  up,  and 

his  pale,  hard  face  was  lit  up  with  a  smile The  smile  passed  away 

and  the  face  became  stern  and  sad.  Almost  it  seemed  that  the  smile 
and  the  gesture  accompanying  it  had  little  reality;  they  were  just  tricks 
of  the  trade  to  gain  the  goodwill  of  the  crowd  whose  darling  he  had 
become.  Was  it  so?  Watch  him  again. 

433 


Is  all  this  natural,  or  the  carefully  thought  out  trickery  of  the  public 
man?  Perhaps  it  is  both,  and  long  habit  has  become  second  nature  now. 
The  most  effective  pose  is  one  in  which  there  seems  to  be  least  posing, 
and  Jawaharlal  has  learned  well  to  act  without  the  paint  and  powder 
of  the  actor.  .  .  .  Whither  is  this  going  to  lead  him  and  the  country? 
What  is  he  aiming  at  with  all  his  apparent  lack  of  aim? 

For  nearly  two  years  now  he  has  been  President  of  Congress.  Stead 
ily  and  persistently  he  goes  on  increasing  his  personal  prestige  and 
influence.  .  .  .  From  the  Far  North  to  Cape  Comorin  he  has  gone  like 
some  triumphant  Caesar,  leaving  a  trail  of  glory  and  a  legend  behind 
him.  Is  all  this  just  a  passing  fancy  which  amuses  him  ...  or  is  it  his 
will  to  power  that  is  driving  him  from  crowd  to  crowd  and  making 
him  whisper  to  himself,  "I  drew  these  tides  of  men  into  my  hands  and 
wrote  my  will  across  the  sky  in  stars." 

What  if  the  fancy  turns?  Men  like  Jawaharlal,  with  all  their  great 
capacity  for  great  and  good  work,  are  unsafe  in  a  democracy.  He  calls 
himself  a  democrat  and  socialist,  and  no  doubt  he  does  so  in  all  earnest 
ness  . .  .  but  a  little  twist  and  he  might  turn  into  a  dictator.  He  might 
still  use  the  language  of  democracy  and  socialism,  but  we  all  know  how 
fascism  has  fattened  on  this  language  and  then  cast  it  away  as  useless 
lumber. 

Jawaharlal  cannot  become  a  fascist.  .  .  .  He  is  too  much  an  aristocrat 
for  the  crudity  and  vulgarity  of  fascism.  His  very  face  and  voice  tell  us 
that.  His  face  and  voice  are  definitely  private.  .  .  .  And  yet  he  has  all 
the  makings  of  a  dictator  in  him — vast  popularity,  a  strong  will,  energy, 
pride  .  .  .  and  with  all  his  love  of  the  crowd,  an  intolerance  of  others 
and  a  certain  contempt  for  the  weak  and  inefficient.  His  flashes  of  tem 
per  are  well  known.  His  overwhelming  desire  to  get  things  done,  to 
sweep  away  what  he  dislikes  and  build  anew,  will  hardly  brook  for 
long  the  slow  processes  of  democracy.  .  .  .  His  conceit  is  already  formi 
dable.  It  must  be  checked.  We  want  no  Caesars.  ...  It  is  not  through 
Caesarism  that  India  will  attain  freedom,  and  though  she  might  pros 
per  a  little  under  a  benevolent  and  efficient  despotism,  she  will  remain 
stunted  and  the  day  of  the  emancipation  of  her  people  will  be  delayed. 


434 


GLOSSARY 

ALUM — A  standard  paraded  at  the  Moharram  festival  and  other  cele 
brations. 

ASHRAMA — Hermitage;  a  retreat  for  retired  devotees  or  sages. 

BANIA — Trader,  shopkeeper;  a  caste. 

BHIKKU — A  Buddhist  monk. 

CHAPPAL — Leather  sandal;  slipper. 

CHARKHA — Spinning  wheel. 

COIR — Stiff,  elastic  fiber  from  the  coconut  husk,  used  for  making  rope. 

DHARAMSHALA — A  house  or  shelter  used  for  various  religious  and  chari 
table  purposes. 

GAEKWAR — Title  of  the  Maharaja,  the  ruling  prince  o£  Baroda. 

GAYATRI  MANTRA — A  prayer  for  the  illumination  of  the  intellect. 

GHAT — Landing  place;  steps  leading  down  to  a  river. 

HARTAL — A  concerted  cessation  of  work  as  a  protest;  noncooperation. 

JAGIR — A  grant  of  public  revenues  of  a  district  to  an  administrator  for 
personal  and  public  use;  also,  the  revenues,  the  district,  or  its  tenure. 

KARZA — Debt. 

KHADI — Homespun  cloth. 

LATHEE — Heavy  stick  bound  with  iron. 

MAIDAN — Open  space  or  esplanade. 

MANTRAM — A  ritualistic  or  devotional  formula. 

MELA — A  fair  held  in  connection  with  a  religious  festival. 

NEWAR — Tape. 

PANCHAYAT — A  communal  or  village  court. 

PANDIT — A  learned  man,  a  teacher,  especially  a  Brahman  versed  in 
Hindu  religion,  science,  and  laws. 

PAN  SUPARI — Areca  nut  rolled  in  betel  leaf  with  a  little  shell-lime  for 
chewing. 

PRAYASHCHIT — Expiation;  penance. 

PUCCA — Good,  substantial,  solid. 

PUJA — Hindu  religious  rite. 

PURDAH — Seclusion  of  women. 

PURDANASHIN — A  woman  who  practices  purdah. 

SABHA — A  meeting;  an  assembly. 

SAMVAT— The  era  which  began  with  the  first  year  of  the  legendary 
king  Uikyamaditra  (on  February  23,  57  B.C.). 

SANYASi—One  devoted  to  asceticism  and  meditation. 

435 


SARKAR — Government;  also,  as  a  title,  master. 
SATYAGRAHA — Civil  disobedience. 
SAWAR — Rider,  cavalier,  cavalryman. 

SITA-RAM — Invocation  in  memory  of  Sita,  legendary  idol  of  woman 
hood,  and  Rama,  her  husband,  idol  of  manhood. 
SWADESHI — Home  manufacture  and  boycott  of  foreign  goods. 
SWARAJ — Political  independence;  self-government. 
TALUK — A  subdivision  of  a  revenue  district;  a  tract. 
TALUKJDAR — A  sub-collector  of  revenue. 
VAKIL — Attorney. 
ZAMINDAR — Landlord. 


436 


INDEX 


Abyssinia,  355,  358,  359,  411,  415,  430, 

432 

Acton,  Lord,  282 
Afghan  War  (1919),  54 
Afghanistan,  367,  384 
Africa,  67,  241,  308,  388,  432;  South,  39, 

44,  314,  319;  North,  125 
Agra,  17,  1 8,  58 
Agrarian  movement,  54-64,  176,  202,  346, 

359fL,  426-427,  passim 
Ahmedabad,  49,   84,   157,  159,   186,  233 
Ajanta,   361 
Akalis,  97 
Akbar,  383 
Akbarpur,  63 
AH  brothers,  51,  71,  77,  85 

,  Mohamad,  51,  52,  104-105 

,  Mubarak,  22-23 

,  Shaukat,  52,  53 

,  Syed  Raza,  52 

Aligarh  College,  290,  294 

Alipore   Central  Jail,    14,   302,   304,   305, 

306,  3093  312,  317,  326,  328,  331 
Allahabad,  18,  19,  20,  21,  23,  25,  26,  29, 

36,  42,  44,  48,  50,  52,  56,  59,  70,  71, 

77,  78,  84,  91,  93,  101,  102,  106,  116, 

117-121,  150,  159,  160,  175-180,  183- 

l86,    212-214,.   2l6,   220,    222,    286,    295, 

296,  299,  300,  301,  304,  33i>  335 
Allahabad  Jail,  5 
All-India   Congress   Committee,    42,    104, 

in,  145,  149,  157,  159,  160,  296,  328, 

362,  419-420,  passim 
All-India  Prisoners'  Aid  Society,  167 
All-India   States  Peoples'   Conference,   366 
All-India  Trade-Union  Congress,  131,  141, 

148 

All-Parties  Conference,  129,  130,  131,  140 
Almora,  12 
Almora  District  Jail,   338-341,   351,  354, 

355 

Alps,  9 

Amanullah,  54 
Amaranth,  45,  46,  273 
Ambala,  102 

America,  see  United  States 
Amery,  Mr.,  378 
Amritsar,  49,  50,  51,  70,  103 
Anand  Bhawan,  26,  91,  171,  177,  221,  222 
Andaman  Islands,  212,  246,  247,  249 
Andrews,  C.  F.,  67,  246,  253 
Aney,  Mr.,  342 

Anglo-German  Naval  Treaty,  415 
Anglo-Indians,  208 

Ansari,  Dr.Mukhtar  Ahmad,  130,  185,  413 
Antioch,  200 


Anuradhapura,  198 

Apollonius  Tyanaeus,  28 

Arabia,  23 

Arabian  Nights,  The,  22 

Arabian  Sea,  207 

Arabs,   125.  See  also  Palestine 

Ardh-f^umbh,  106 

Arya  Samajists,  105 

Asansol,  228 

Asia,  9,  241,  273,  286,  308,  388,  389,  432 

Asia  and  Europe,  34 

Asquith,  Mr.,  308 

Assam,  306 

Ataturk,  Mustapha  Kemal,  279 

Austria,  274,  306 

Azad,  92 

,  Abul  Kalam,  85,  145,  146,  365 

Babu,  Rajendra,  298,  392 

Badaun,  22 

Baden weiler,  354,  355 

Badrinath,  273 

Bakulia,  220 

Baldwin,  Roger,   122 

Bangalore,  199 

Bankipore,  39 

Barcelona,  363 

Bareilly,  3,  223 

Bareilly  District  Jail,  3,  5,  6,  13,  223 

Bastille,  263 

Batavia,  181 

Battuta,  Ibn,  9 

Behar,  58,  297,  299,  300,  301,  302,  326, 

348,  372 
Belgaum,  nr 
Belgium,  369,  375 
Benares,  23,  29,  200,  273,  288 
Benares  Jail,  7 
Bengal,  32,  34,  37,  39,  40,  43,  58,  77,  78, 

85,  133,  141,  144,  *94>  i95»  202,  206, 

210,  211,    246,    247,    250,   254,   260,   291, 

296,  297,  298,  306,  326,  345,  348,  393, 

410,  413 

Bengal  Ordinance,  308 
Berlin,  38,  123,  124 
Besant,  Mrs.  Annie,  28,  29,  42,  43,  129 
Bhagavad  Gita,  29,  73 
Bharadwaj,  151 
Bhowali,  338,  341,  354 
Bishop  of  London,  243 
Elac\  Man's  Burden,  67 
Blavatsky,  Mme.,  28,  29 
Bleriot,  31 
Block,  Ivan,.  33 
Bodhisatvas,  361 
Boer  War,  26 


439 


Bombay,  18,  39,  40,  108,  121,  162,  163, 
172,  173,  184,  186,  191,  200,  207,  212- 

217,   220,   232,  233,   234,   250,  257,   259, 

260,  285,  335,  337,  339,  341,  342,  343, 

413,  426 

Bombay  Girni  Kamgar  Union,  141 
Bose,  Subhas  Chandra,  250,  340,  362,  365, 

393>  413 

(British)  Conservative  party,  208 

(British)  Labour  party,  125,  126,  225,  268, 
308,  343-344,  379 

Brooks,  Ferdinand  T.,  27-28,  29 

Brussels,  123,  124,  125,  126,  418;  Con 
gress,  see  Congress  o£  Oppressed  Nation 
alities 

Bryce,  232 

Buchman,  Frank,  122 

Burma,  361,  367,  384 

Buder,  Sir  Harcourt,  55,  88n. 

Calcutta,  14,  1 8,  40,  44,  65,  66,  67,  68,  78, 
140,  141,  178,  181,  182,  211,  212,  221, 
228,  232,  233,  239,  250,  254,  259,  294, 
296,  297,  298,  301,  302,  305,  306,  326, 

363 

Cam,  the,  33 

Cambridge,  30,  33-37,  203 

Cape  Comorin,  199,  273,  434 

Carroll,  Lewis,  28 

Casement,  Roger,  44 

Cawnpore,  18,  19,  121,  218,  325;  Com 
munal  Riots,  218 

Central  Provinces,  160 

Ceylon,  186,  197-199,  367,  384 

Chamberlain,  Seville,  248,  263,  364,  369, 

375 

Champaran,  44 
Champion,  F.  W.,  14 
Charvaka,  105 

Chauri  Chaura,  79-80,  82,  156 
Chetwode,  Sir  Philip,  284 
Chheoki  station,  213 
Chiang  Kai-shek,  Mme.,  367 

,  Marshal,  367 

Child  marriage  restraint  bill,  see  Sarda  Act 
China,  123,  231,  273,  358,  359,  367,  380, 

397,  411,  433 

Chirol,  Sir  Valentine,  290,  291 
Chittagong,  210,  211 
Chungking,  367 
Churchill,  Winston,  344 
Church  of  England,  241 
Civil  disobedience,  see  Civil  resistance 
Civil  Liberties  Union,  N.  Y.,  122 
Civil  Marriage  Act,  286 
Civil  resistance,  81,   156-162,  175,  223fE., 

230,  238,  244,  246,  252,  257,  309,  310, 

329>  333>  386,  410-411,  passim.  See  dso 

Nonviolent  nonco-operation 
Cochin,  199,  200,  324 


Coconada,  104,  106 

Cologne,  126,  127 

Colombo,  127 

Communalism  (-ists),  68,  112-117,  287- 
293,  3<>3>  343,  35°>  3^5,  382-383,  389, 
395,  4o6£F. 

Communism,  229-230,  232,  321,  348-350, 
passim 

Communist  International,  350 

Congress,  see  Indian  National  Congress 

Congress  Inquiry  Report,  49 

Congress  o£  Oppressed  Nationalities  (Brus 
sels  Congress),  123-126 

Congress  Socialist  party,  330,  335 

Congress  Working  Committee,  71,  129, 
157,  162,  163,  171,  173,  183,  184,  186, 
187,  193,  196,  202,  207,  212,  213,  214, 
215,  234,  293-295,  328,  330,  334,  335, 
358,_  3^8,  370,  400,  4i3-4i4>  428-433, 
passim 

Constituent  Assembly,  342,  354,  368,  373, 
379>  392>  401,  420,  426,  431 

Constitution  Act,  399-407 

Coomaraswamy,  Dr.  Ananda,  276 

Crawling  Lane,  the,  70 

Criminal  Law  Amendment  Act,  392 

Cyrenaicism,  33,  34 

Czechoslovakia,  363,  430 

Daily  Herald  (London),  172 

Dandi  Salt  March,  157,  159-160 

Das,  Deshbandhu  C.  R.,  49,  66,  71,  77,  90 

,  Jatindranath,  144 

Dasehra,  23 

Decline  and  Fall  of  the  West,  7 

Defense  of  India  Act,  41 

Defense  of  the  Realm  Act,  41 

Defense  Services,  284-285 

Dehra  Dun,  55,  176 

Dehra  Dun  Jail,  3-15,  198,  223,  247,  253, 
325-332,  339 

Delhi,  16,  17,  45,  49,  50,  51,  97,  102,  127, 
130,  131,  146,  187,  188,  195,  196,  228, 
244,  280,  293,  294,  426;  Unity  Confer 
ence,  116 

Delhi  Pact,  127,  186-196,  201,  202,  203, 
204,  206,  221 

Derbyshire,  123 

Dhammapada,  28 

Dickens,  Charles,  28 

Dickinson,  Lowes,  33 

Digby,  William,  270 

Divali,  23 

"Doctrine  of  the  Sword,  The,"  81 

Dolfuss,  Chancellor,  306 

Don  Quixote,  28 

Dore,  Gustavc,  28 

Dover,  30 

Dublin  Society  of  Friends,  345 

Du  Maurier,  28 


440 


Durbhanga,  Maharaja  of,  301 
Diisseldorf,  126,  127 
Dwarka,  273 
Dutch  Indies,  178 
Dutt,  B.  K.,  143 

,  Romesh,  270 

Dyer,  General,  49,  50 

Ebbing,  Kraft,  33 

Edinburgh  Review,  291 

Egypt,  125,  127,  309,  364,  383 

Eiffel  Tower,  38 

Einstein,  125 

Ellis,  Havelock,  33 

England,  15,  29,  30,  37,  39,  41,  121,  123, 
124,  225,  231,  249,  264,  266,  267,  274, 
279,  289,  307,  355,  363,  368,  369,  375- 
376,  412,  passim 

Etawah,  214 

Eton,  31 

Extremists,  see  Tilakites 

Fabians,  38 

Faizpur,  413,  426 

Farman,  31 

Farthest  North,  28 

Fascism,  307,  348-350,  359,  368-369,  372- 

373,  390-392,  4">  4i5-4i7>  429-433 
Fiji,  57 
Finland,  369 
Forward  Bloc,  365 
France,  15,31,42,  121,  124,  231,  355,  368, 

369,  375,  376,  4"»  4i5 
Franco,  General,  358 
French  Revolution,  263,  364 
Friedrichshafen,  38 
Freud,  Sigmund,  29 
Frontier  Province,  150,  161,  202,  203,  206, 

214,  260,  329,  354,  393,  397,  414 
Future  of  East  and  West,  The,  271 
Fyzabad,  63 

Gaekwar  of  Baroda,  31 

Gandhi,  see  Gandhiji 

Gandhiji,  40,  44,  47,  48'53,  63,  64,  65,  66, 
67,  68,  71-75,  79,  80-84,  90,  95>  104, 
108-111,  114,  122,  129,  140,  142-143, 
145-147,  156-162,  169,  172,  173,  183- 

194,  196-197,  201,  203,  205-208,  210, 
212-215,  224,  232-233,  235-240,  243, 
252-258,  260-262,  266,  286,  291,  293- 
295,  301,  303,  309,  310-322,  325-326, 

328,  334,  342,  357,  358,  362,  365,  369, 

370,  410,  424 

Ganges,  23,  60,  106,  107,  151,  185 
Garhwalis,  161 
Garibaldi,  32 
Geneva,  121,  122,  363 
George,  Lloyd,  230 


Germany,  15,  41,  121,  124,  231,  307,  355, 

365,  4i3>  415 
Ghose,  Aravindo,  34 
Ghosh,  Sir  Rash  Behary,  44 
Gidwani,  A.  T.,  97-103 
Giornale  d'ltalia,  357 
Glimpses  of  World  History,  8n. 
Gokhale,  39,  40,  145,  146,  169 
Gorakhpur,  142,  348 
Government  of  India  Act,  419;  Amending 

Bill,  429.  See  Constitution  Act 
Gujrat,  58,  196,  252,  326 
Gunther,  John,  363 
Guntur,  414 
Gurdwara  Committee,  102,  103 

Harda,  174 

Hardiker,  Dr.  N.  S.  212 

Hari,  185 

Harijan   movement,   224,   238,   244,   246, 

252,  256,  258,  399,  408 
Haripura,  363 
Harrow,  28,  30-32,  38 
Hasan,  23 

Hearn,  Lafcadio,  30 
Hedin,  Sven,  9 
Henderson,  Arthur,  343 
Hijli,  210 

Himalayas  9,  45-47,  223,  273,  339 
Hindu(s),  15,  42,  73,  210,  211,  236,  240, 

288-289,  292-293,  308,  382-383 
History  of  Nationalism  in  the  East,  2890. 
Hitler,  231,  248,  307,  382 
Hiuen  Tsang,  9 

Hoare,  Sir  Samuel,  218,  226,  341 
Holi,  23 

Holland,  369,  375 
Holmes,  Sherlock,  28 
Home  Rule  League,  42 
Howrah  station,  302 
Hubli,  212 

Hunter  Committee  of  Inquiry,  50 
Husain,  23 
Hyderabad,  199,  200 

Id  days,  23 

Independence  for  India  League,  132 

Independence — the  Immediate  Need,  67 

Independent,  The  (Allahabad),  50 

India,  35n.-36n.,  passim 

India  Act,  344,  419.  See  Constitution  Act 

Indian  Civil  Service,  206,  281-283,  354 

(Indian)   Legislative  Assembly,   143,  150, 

234,  244,  254,  271,  288,  330,  335,  339, 

343,  368,  370,  373,  379,  429 
(Indian)  National  Congress,  19-21,  36,  39, 

41,  42,  44,  49,  5i,  52,  65-68,  78,  80, 

82,  90,  96,  104,  III,  120,  121,  123, 
128-130,  140,  145,  146-150,  155,  158, 
175,  l88,  195,  196,  201,  205,  212 


441 


Indian  Unrest,  290 

Indo-China,  125 

Indus  Valley,  361 

Inside  Asia,  363 

International  Labor  Office,  121 

Iradatganj,  214 

Iraq,  383 

Ireland,  38,  44 

Irwin,  Lady,  186 

Irwin,  Lord  (Viceroy),  146,  147,  172,  174, 

1 86,  187,  193,  194,  206,  215 
Islam,  276 

Italy,  32,  in,  124,  231,  273,  357,  415 
Itarsi,  174 

Jaffna,  199 

Jaito,  97,  98,  99>  103 

Jallianwala  Bagh,  49,  50,  70,  159 

Jamalpur,  299 

Jambusar,  159 

Janmashtami,  23 

Japan,  29,  30,  231,  279,  369 

Java,  125 

Jayakar,  M.  R.,  172,  174 

Jermoe,  Jerome  K.,  28 

Jharia,  141 

Jinnah,  M.  A.,  68,  364,  365 

Jubbulpore,  293,  294 

Juhu,  1 08 

Jumna,  56,  106,  177 

Jungle  Boo^s,  7 he,  28 

Jungle  in  Sunlight  and  Shadow,  14 

Kailas,  46,  47 

Kaiser  (William  II),  38 

Kalka,  207 

Kapurthala,  31 

Karachi,  196,  197,  203,  330 

Karnataka,  212,  213 

Kashipur,  6 

Kashmir,  n,  16,  22,  41,  45,  46,  371 

Kaul,  Raj,  16 

Keith,  232 

Khadi,  142,  143,  311,  399,  408,  435 

Khan,  Aga,  104,  208,  209,  290,  291 

Khan,  Khan  Abdul  Chaff ar,  150,  202,  203, 
214,  329,  340,  394,  414 

Khan,  Sir  Syed  Ahmad,  289-290 

Khilafat,  47,  51,  65,  76;  Committee,  51- 
52,  53 

Khudai  Khidmatgars,  329.  See  "Redshirts" 

Kim,  28 

Kirkee,  173 

Kisan:  conference,  176,  177,  179,  212; 
movement,  see  Agrarian  movement;  sab- 
has,  329;  union,  217 

Kohn,  Hans,  289n. 

"Komagatu  Maru,"  47 

Konzru,  Hriday  Nath,  260 

Krishna,  23 


Kuomintang,  124 

Labor  movement,  232,  passim 

Ladakh,  45 

Lahore,  50,  105,  132,  144,  145,  146-150 

Lake  Constance,  38 

Lalaji,  see  Rai,  Lala  Lajpat 

Lai  Bazaar  Police  Station,  302 

Lambert,  Comte  de,  38 

Lancashire,  234 

Lanka,  23 

Lansbury,  George,  125 

Lasalle,  Ferdinand,  400 

Latham,  31 

Latin  America,  124.  See  also  South  Amer 
ica 

Lausanne,  357 

Leader,  The  (Allahabad),  50 

League  against  Imperialism,  125-127,  129 

League  of  Nations,  121,  355,  415,  419,  430 

Lenin,  229,  259,  349 

Liberals,  68,  224ff. 

Lindbergh,  C.  A.,  38 

Li  T'ai  Po,  10,  342 

London,  30,  33,  37,  123,  187,  201,  202, 
203,  205,  207,  209,  210,  248,  342,  363, 
427 

Lord's,  31 

Lucknow,  42,  44>  59,  121,  130,  131,  134, 
136,  145,  176,  183,  185,  195,  253,  285, 
286,  386,  414,  422,  424,  426 
Lucknow  District  Jail,  12,  85-92 
Ludhiana,   366 
Lytton,  Lord,  308 

MacDonald,  Ramsay,  236 

McDougall,  Professor,  341 

Madras,  97,  127,  129,  130,  260,  295,  370 

Madras  Mail,  295 

"Magpie  and  Stump,"  35 

Mahabharata,  the,  23 

Maharashtra,  36,  57 

Mahasabha  (Hindu),  130,  288,  329 

Mahatma  Gandhi,  see  Gandhiji 

Mahmud,  Dr.  Syed,   163,   171,   173,  174, 

177 

Majlis,  the,  35 
Malabar,  199,  200 
Malaviya,  Kapil  Dev,  101 
,    Madan    Mohan,    106-108,     163, 

228,  288,  342 

Malaviyaji,    see   Malaviya,   Madan   Mohan 
Malaya,  361 

Manasarovar  (Lake),  46,  47 
Manchester  Guardian,  225,  307;   Weekly, 

306 

Manchuria,  430 
Marseilles,  127 
Martin,  Colonel,  173,  174 
Marx,  Karl,  348-349 


442 


Marxism  (-ists),  139,  230,  319 

Matayan,  45 

Mazzini,  232 

Mears,  Sir  Grimwood,  93-94 

Meerut,  71;  Conspiracy  Case,  141,  232 

Mehta,  Dr.  Jivraj,  185 

Menon,  V.  K.  Krishna,  344,  418 

Metternich,  273 

Mexico,  124-125 

Midnapur,  254,  393 

Minto,  Lord  (Viceroy),  291 

Minto-Morley  scheme,  39 

Miraben,  see  Slade,  Madeleine 

Moderates,  42,  47,  54,  68.  See  also  Liberals 

Modern  Review,  345,  363 

Moghal  Empire,  16,  17,  278,  280 

Moharram,  23 

Mohenjo  Daro,  361 

Monghyr,  299,  300,  307 

Mongolia,  397 

Montagu,  Edwin,  35 

Montagu -Chelmsford  recommendations,  51 

Montana,  121 

Moplah,  83 

Moral  Man  and  Immoral  Society,  243 

Morell,  67 

Morley,  232 

,  John,  308 

Moscow,  127 

Moslem(s),   27,   42,   47,   51-52,   73,    104, 

105,  114,  208,  209,  210,  211,  240,  288- 

293>  308,  364*  382-383 
Moslem  League,  42,  52,  53,  68,  364 
Moulvies,  51,  52 
Mukerji,  Dhan  Gopal,  122 
Munich,  356,  363 
Munshiji  (Mubarak  AH),  22-23 
Mussolini,  248,  357 
Mussoorie,  54,  55,  60,  163,  175,  176 
Muzaffarpur,  298 

Nabha,  97-103 
Nabha  Jail,  97-103,  112 
Nagpur,  148,  424 
Naidu,  Leilamani,  200 
',  Padmaja,  200 

,  Sarojini,  44,  68 

,  Mrs.  Sarojini,  200 

Naini  Tal  Jail  (Central  Prison),  6,  13,  87, 

163-170,  172,  173,  174,  177,  1 80,  181, 

183,  203,  214,  216-217,  223,  253,  305, 

326,  336-338 
Nansen,  Fridjof,  28 
Naoroz,  23 

Naoroji,  Dadabhai,  270 
Nationalism,  232,  2691!.,  289-291,  passim 
Nationalist   movement,    40-41,    290,    421, 

passim 
National  Planning  Committee,  366-367 


Nazi-ism,  359*  3^8,  372-373*  39*>  4"» 
429 

Nehru,  16 

,  Indira,  91,  176,  198,  237,  238, 

298,  332,  333>  334 

,  Jawaharlal,  55,  105;  and  agrarian 

mpvementj_55H64;  in  Alipore  Jail,  302- 
3~o~9;~  in  Almora  Jail,  337'34i;  in  Bare- 
illy  District  Jail,  223;  childhood  of,  20- 
26;  and  communism,  229-230;  death  of 
father,  183-186;  in  Dehra  Dun  Jail,  223, 
253,  326-332;  delegate  to  Congress  of 
Oppressed  Nationalities,  123-127;  edu 
cation  of,  26-39;  m  Europe,  29-39,  121- 
127,  363-366;  family  history  of,  16-20; 
family  life  of,  95-96,  197-200,  253-256, 
285-286,  331-341,  363;  fi1*^  prison  sen 
tence,  83;  and  Gandhiji,  Satyagraha,  48- 
53,  108-111,  186-196;  in  Himalayas,  45- 
47;  and  Indian  National  Congress,  128$.; 
as  lawyer,  40ff.;  in  Lucknow  Jail,  85- 
92;  marriage  of,  41,  332-334;  municipal 
work  at  Allahabad,  117-121;  in  Nabha 
Jail,  97-103,  112;  in  Naini  Central 
Prison,  163-177,  214,  216-217,  253,  336- 
338;  and  nonco-operation,  65-73 ;J20U#" 
cal  attitude^  of^  54^  as  president  of 
'Congress,  145^.,' 363,  433-435;  as  Pub' 
lic  figure,  151-155;  in  prison,  3-16,  83, 
85-92,  97-103,  112,  163-177,  214,  216- 
217,  223,  251,  253-254,  302-309,  325- 
332,  336-341;  as  secretary  of  All-India 
Congress  Committee,  104,  m,  130,  138; 
and  socialism,  138-140;  and  Swaraj, 

73-83  '" """" 

,  Kamala,  54,  159,  160,  161,  162, 

170,  171,  175,  176,  177,  178,  181,  183, 
186,  198,  200,  212,  213,  285-286,  296, 
297,  298,  301,  303,  318,  328,  33I'34i 
-,  Krishna,  121,  159,  181,  255,  256, 


286,  303 

,  Nand  Lai,  19,  23 

Swarup,  70,  237 


Nepal,  299 

Nestorians,  200 

Nevinson,  H.  W.,  36 

Newton,  81 

New  York,  8,  122 

Niebuhr,  Reinhold,  243 

Nietzsche,  33 

Nonco-operation,  see  Nonviolent  nonco- 
operation 

Nonviolence,  see  Nonviolent  nonco-opcra- 
tion 

Nonviolent  non-cooperation,  51,  52,  54, 
61,  65-73,  80-84,  251,  259,  291,  328, 
333,  370.  See  also  Civil  resistance 

Norway,  38,  369 

Nuwara  Eliya,  186,  198 


443 


Olcott,  Colonel,  29 

Ottawa,  267 

Oudh,  57-58,  61,  64,  65,  131 

Oxford,  356 

Oxford  Group  Movement,  122,  123 

Palestine,  125,  359,  417 

Pandit,  Ranjit  S.,  4011.,  121,  173,  177, 
1 80,  183,  185,  336 

,  Vijaya  Lakshmi,  361 

Pant,  Govind  Ballabh,  3,  6,  134,  135,  137 

Paris,  38,  124,  363,  364,  369 

Parsis,  383 

Partabgarh,  56,  60,  62 

Pascal,  339 

Pasha,  Mustafa  Nahas,  364 

Patel,  Vallabhbhai,  146,  147,  196,  215, 
287,  288 

Pater,  Walter,  33 

Pathans,  161 

Patiala,  97 

Patna,  298,  328 

Pavlov,  14 

Peasant  conference,  see  Kisan  conference 

Peasant  movement,  see  Agrarian  move 
ment 

Persia,  383,  384 

Peshawar,  161 

Peter  Ibbetson,  28 

Plato,  322 

Poland,  429 

Polo,  Marco,  9 

Poona,  32,  37,  108,  173,  174,  238,  247, 
255,  256,  260,  285,  303 

Poona  Pact,  238 

Poverty  and  Un-British  Rule  in  India,  270 

Prasad,  Rajendra,  354 

Prayag  station,  332 

Prayaschit,  26-27,  435 

Presidency  Jail,  302,  303,  304 

Prince  of  Wales,  77,  78,  153 

Prisoner  of  Zenda,  28 

Punjab,  41,  43,  47,  49-51,  58,  65,  66,  70, 
85>  97,  132,  134,  141*  145,  326,  333, 
348,  414 

Puri,  273 

Pythagoras,  28 

Quetta,  354 

Rae  Bareli,  62,  63,  220 

Rai,  Lala  Lajpat,  71,  132,  133,  134,  144 

Raipur,   160 

Rajagopalachari,  C.,  90,  244,  370 

Rajkot,  366 

Ramachandra,  23 

Ramachandra,  56,  57 

Rama  Raj,  72 

Ramayana,  23,  57 

Ram  tila,  23,  116,  117 


Ramgarh,  375 

Rangoon,  178 

Reading,  Lord  (Viceroy),  70 

"Redshirts,"  Frontier,  202,  329 

Report  of  the  Joint  Parliamentary  Com 
mittee  on  Indian  Constitutional  Re 
form,  275-276,  343,  344 

Responsivists,  262 

Revolt  of  1857,  17.  22,  34,  289,  372 

Roerich,  9 

Rolland,  Remain,  122,  125 

Rome,  273,  357 

Roosevelt,  President,  375 

Ro  therm  ere,  Lord,  344 

Round  Table  Conference (s),  182,  186-187, 
194,  196,  200,  205-209,  225,  235,  249, 
3*3,  344>  39i 

Rowlatt  Act  (Bills),  47,  48 

Roy,  Dr.  Bidhan  Chandra,  185 

Roy,  M.  N.,  414 

Rumania,  122 

Russell,  Bertrand,  44 

Russia,  15,  126,  127,  128,  139,  229-231, 
232,  259,  279,  345,  348-350,  369,  388, 
389,  398,  421 

Russian  Revolution,  263 

Russo-German  Pact,  369 

Russo-Japanese  War,  29 

Sabarmati,  157;  Prison,  84 

Sacco-Vanzetti,   127 

Sahib,  Dr.  Khan,  203,  214 

Salt  Act,  1 60,  162,  177;  tax,  385 

Samvat  calendar,  20,  23,  71,  435 

Santamim,  K.,  97-103 

Santiniketan,  67,  298 

Santos-Dumont,   31 

Sapru,  Sir  (Dr.)  Tej  Bahadur,  26,  43,  146, 

172,  173,  174,  186,  248 
Saraswati  (River),  106 
Sarda  Act,  245,  246 
Sasti,  Srinivasa,  186,  260 
Satyagraha    (Sabha),    48-49,    64,    72,    81, 

106,  107,  159,  191,  310,  311,  436 
Scott,  Sir  Walter,  28 
Sea  Customs  Act,  345 
Seeley,  67 

Sen-Gupta,  J.  M.,  211,  250 
Servants  of  India  Society,  41,  260,  261 
(Seva)  Dal,  212,  329 
Shadi-tyana,  24 
Shankar,  Uday,  257 
Shaw,  Bernard,  33 
Sherwani,  Tasadduq,  213,  214,  216 
Sholapur,   170,  212 
Sikh(s),  97,  114,  208,  240,  382 
Simla,  55,  195,  206,  207,  342,  369 
Simon,  Sir  John,  131 
Simon  Commission,   129,   131,   132,   134, 

135,  137 


444 


Sind,  254,  255 
Singapore,  178 
Singh,  Bhagat,  133,  134,  143,  144,  196 

,  Kunwar  Anand,  6 

,  Narmada  Prasad,  171,  174,  177 

,  Parana]  it,  31 

Sing  Sing  Prison,  8 

Sinn  Fein  (-ism),  38,  82 

Slade,  Madeleine,  220 

Slocombe,  Mr.,  172 

Sobani,  Umar,  191 

Socialism,  138-140,  232,  350,  417 

Socrates,  353 

Sohagpur,    174 

South  America,  308 

Soviet  Russia,  see  Russia 

Spain,  231,  307,  356,  358,  359,  415,  416, 

430,  433 

Spanish  War,  358 
Spengler,  7 
Spinoza,  326 

Statesman,  The  (Calcutta),  306,  310 
Suez  Canal,  309 
Sun  Yat-sen,  Mme.,  125 
Surat,  36 
Swadeshi,  32,  34,  36,  196,  214,  217,  234, 

265,  436 
Swaraj,  61,  65,  72,  74ff.,  115,  166,   169, 

170,  185,  204,  240,  248,  262,  385,  386, 

392,  418,  436;  party,  66,  m,  129 
Swaraj  Bhawan,  159,  184,  220,  297 
Swarajist (s),  108 
Swinburne,  109,  in 
Switzerland,  105,  121,  356 
Syria,  125,  200,  383 

Tagore  family,  257 

,  "Boro  Dada,"  67 

,  Rabindranath,  17,  67,  246,  266, 

298,  345 

Taj  Mahal,  18,  no 
Tandon,  Purushottam  Das,  213,  301 
Tawney,  R.  H.,  268 
Tempelhof  Field  (Berlin),  38 
Thackeray,  28 
Theosophy,  28-30 

Theosophical  Society,  29;  Convention,  29 
Thompson,  Edward,  49 
Thoreau,   249 
Thought  Currents,  109 
Three  Men  in  a  Boat,  28 
Tibet,  9,  46 


Tilak,  Lokamanya,  32,  34,  36,  39,  42,  51, 

85,  392 

Tilakites  (Extremists),  35,  39,  54 
Toller,  Ernst,  122 
Townsend,  Meredith,  34 
Trade-unions,  139,  passim 
Travancore,  199,  324 
Trevelyan,  G.  M.,  32 
Trilby,  28 
Tripuri,  365 
Tsushima,  30 
Tulsidas,  57 

Turkey,  47,  127,  279,  286 
Twain,  Mark,  28 
Tyabji,  Abbas,  413 

Ulemas,  51,  52 

United  Provinces,  8,  36,  58,  61,  65,  77, 
78,  88n.,  90,  91,  131,  141,  142,  167, 
168,  171,  180,  183,  193,  202,  206,  212, 

213,    214,   220,    228,   235,   302,   305,   306, 

326,  329,  348,  361,  426,  428 

United  States,  8,  15,   124,  231,  243,  279, 

308,  35<5>  374,  415 
U.S.S.R.,  see  Russia 
Upanishads,  28,  272 

Vasanta  Panchami,  45 
Veblen,  282 
Venice,  121,  127 
Villeneuve,   122 
Vivekananda,  270 
Voltaire,  225 

Wafd  party,  364 

War  Memoirs,  230 

Weininger,  Otto,  33 

Wellington,  81 

Wells,  H.  G.,  28 

"Whither  India?",  286 

Whyte,  Sir  Frederick,  271 

Wilde,  Oscar,  33 

Willingdon,  Lord  (Viceroy),  206,  215 

World  Peace  Conference,  418 

World  War  (Great  War),  40,  47,  85,  290, 

291*  307,  43i 
Wright  brothers,  31 

Yeravda  Prison,  173,  174,  178,  183,  237, 
238,  244,  252 

Zeppelin,  Count,  38 
Zoji-la  Pass,  45 


445 


LLJ 

I3 


_._.  WIMIII  mtmmi  I 

104485 


5